ttfit 



0\it effw:^ Clocfe. 



BY 

RIOHAED PAEKINSON, B.D., 

Canon of Manchester, 



LONDON : 

J. G. F. AND J. RIVINOTON. 

MA N CHESTER: SIMMS AND DINHAM, 

1843. 






Gift 
W. L. Shoemaker 
T S '06 



INTRODUCTION. 

/ 



A BRIEF history of the following homely little tale 
may perhaps be not less interesting, and more edify- 
ing, than the tale itself. It was written originally 
for the pages of The Christian Magazine^ (a cheap 
monthly publication, intended for circulation espe- 
cially in the manufacturing districts,) which is under 
the management of a young clerical friend, who 
deserves the highest praise for the energy with which 
he commenced, and the zeal and judgment with 
which he has hitherto conducted it. 

Like many more important events, the following 
story, which commenced almost in jest, has ended 
almost in earnest. It was not at first proposed that 
it should extend beyond three or four chapters ; but 
having nearly by accident carried his hero (so to 
style him) into the North for a birth-place, a train 
of associations was awakened of which the author 
could not forego the record. Though by birth and 
4iescent a native of Lancashire, he had resided long 

h 



VI INTRODUCTION". 



enough in the region of the English Lakes to be 
come enamoured with its wild and romantic scenes 
and intimately acquainted with the manners and 
mode of thinking of its inhabitants ; and, among 
other charms of that sequestered district, not the 
least grateful to his imagination was the character 
of Robert Walker, for so long a period incum- 
bent of one of the most retired and romantic por- 
tions even of that primitive country. Nor was it 
merely as an exemplary parish priest, (and well 
does Robert Walker deserve the title of Priest of 
the Lakes, as that of Apostle of the North has been 
assigned to Bernard Gilpin,) that the character of 
this good man is to be regarded, but as one striking 
instance out of many (if the history of our Parish 
Priesthood could now be written) in which the true 
liturgical teaching of the Church was strictly main- 
tained in the lower ranks of the ministry, when it 
had been either totally discontinued or had withered 
dovv^n into a mere lifeless form, in the higher. It 
cannot be denied that corruption began from above, 
— secular patronage and loose foreign notions and 
manners first influencing those in station and autho- 
rity, and then naturally descending downwards into 
the ranks of the Church ; thus gradually corrupting 
the whole mass to such an extent, that the chastise- 
ments which she has since received from the whips 



% 



INTRODUCTION. Vll 

and scorns of dissent became as wholesome as it 
was deserved. Now, in the author's mind, there 
was an apostohcal succession of duty as well as 
office in Eobert Walker, Vv^hich convinced him, — 
and consoled him with the thought, — that there 
was nothing in the Church system itself which 
necessarily led to that deadness in herself and ac- 
tivity and success in those who dissented from her, 
which it was too often his lot to witness during the 
first days of his ministry.^ No doubt, hundreds of 

■^ It would he very interesting to trace the precise period when 
the late culpable neglect of Church discipline (more especially 
in observing the duty of daily prayer in churches) began to be 
generally prevalent. It would seem to be soon after^ and not 
before, the year 1720. The author has now lying before him a 
daily journal kept by a collateral ancestor, vrho was curate of 
Garstang Church-Town, an agricultural district of this county, 
in the years 1723-4-5, from which it appears that, even in that 
retired district, prayers were then said in the church on all 
Wednesdays and Fridays, and all Saints' days and Holydays 
throughout the year. The labour of a curate then, (for the 
vicar was non-resident,) was such as is seldom surpassed even 
by the often almost intolerable toils of the present day. The 
following is a specimen of the journal referred to : — 

^^ April, 1723. 

"12. Good Friday. Read prayers, Mr. Hay ward [the 
vicar] preached, and we administered the sacrament to 236 
communicants. After dinner I went into Claughton [two 
miles off] to visit the sick. 



Vlll INTRODUCTION. 

his brethren can look back, each to his Robeii; 
Walker in his own district, by whose light his 

"13. Mr. Hay ward read prayers ; I went into the parish, 
and administered the sacrament at three private houses to sick 
and aged people. 

" 14. Easter Day. I read prayers. Mr. Hayward preached; 
and we administered the sacrament to 285 communicants. 
Afternoon : Mr. Hayward read prayers, and I preached ; and 
then went to visit a sick child." 

The reader will be struck with the large attendance at the 
communion. We have had sad fallings-off since the year 1723 ! 

I cannot resist making one or two other extracts, showing 
the general character of this curious little journal of the Rev. 
Thomas Parkinson : — 

"February, 1722. 

" 1. Went to Street to visit Mrs. Salome, and administered 
the sacrament to her. She is 103 years old, yet very perfect in 
memory, sight, and hearing to admiration. 

"April, 1723. 

"30. Studied hard yesterday in the afternoon and this morn- 
ing, and finished the 103rd sermon. At night I preached it 
for T. Raby, of Tarnaker, at St. Michael's. His son paid me 
10s. Mr. Crombleholm, the vicar there, came from London 
whilst I was there, who, in conjunction with three more, had 
bought RawclifF Domain and Tenants, paying to the Board 
£11,260. It cost them near £1000 more in hush-money, as r. 

they call it. | 

"October, 1723. 

"18. In the morning I went to visit William Grayston, who j 
seemed very penitent after an ill-spent life. I pray God for- I 
give him. 



INTRODUCTION. IX 

path was cheered when all else seemed dark around 
him. 

The history of Robert Walker, however, is cal- 
culated to teach a much more important lesson than 
"October, 1723. 

" 28. In the morning I went to see W . Grayston, who had 
been perverted by a Romish priest in his sickness, but, by the 
blessing of God, I restored him to the Church, and administered 
the communion to him after he had begged pardon. He gave 
me then £1. 18s. 6d. to distribute, in way of restitution, to some 
he had unjustly injured. 

"Not. 2. Studied all the morning, and finished the 110th. 
Afternoon : I went to see W. Grayston and old Mrs. Salome." 

P.S. I ought to add that the number of attendants at the 
communion, above stated, was by no means unusual ; for be- 
sides the communicants being, on ordinary Sundays, at least 
one hundred, I find the following entries in his next year's 

Diary : — 

"April, 1724. 

" 3. Good Friday. I preached. Mr. Hayward, [who seems 
always to have attended on these occasions,] read prayers, 
and consecrated. We had a vast number of communicants, 
more than have been usually seen. 

" 4. Mr. Hayward read prayers. I went into the parish to 
visit sick and impotent people ; that is, such as cou'd not come 
to church. 

^^5. Easter-day. I preached in the forenoon. Mr. Hayward 
read prayers, and consecrated. We had a great many com- 
municants at those three days of sacrament. [Palm Sunday 
was one.] At church we had about 656 communicants, and I 
administered to about 60 impotent people in the parish. I read 
prayers afternoon, and Mr. Hayward preached." 



INTRODUCTION. 



1 



this ; although it be one which seems so obvious to 
reason^ that it could hardly have been expected that 
any example should be required, even to enforce it. 
It appears quite evident, at the first glance, that as 
Faith can only be illustrated, proved, and confirmed i 
by good works, so Doctrine can only be impressed, 
ingrafted, and made practical by discipline. It is 
true that it may be conveyed into the mind, and 
painted on the imagination, by distinct and im- 
pressive oral teaching alone ; but it can only be- 
come usefiil and even intelligible to the great masses 
of men, by their being required to show, by some out- 
ward act of their own, that they understand its utility, 
and make a personal application of the truths which 
it conveys. When our Saviour Himself combined 
— never to be separated — outward acts and ob- 
servances with inward graces in the two holy Sacra- 
ments of His religion, He taught us, at once by ? 
precept and example, that even the most solemn 
and mysterious doctrines of His Church can only 
be properly impressed on the heart and understand- 
ing by the observance of some corresponding out- 
ward act, as at once a sign of obedience, and a 
channel of further grace. This is the system on ' 
which our Prayer Book is constructed. Are men 
to pray? — it tells them when, and how. Are 
they to believe certain facts in their religion ? — it 



INTRODUCTION. XI 

impresses them on the heart and memory by peri- 
odical commemorations. Are they to beUeve certain 
doctrines ? — it brings these prominently forth at fixed 
times and seasons. And so on. Doctrine and dis- 
cipline, with the Church, go hand in hand, like faith 
and practice, the result of both. Now all this seems 
so reasonable^ that it might hardly appear to re- 
quire the test of experience to give it further sanc- 
tion ; yet to that test we may fairly appeal ; and 
the author has, in his own mind, been constantly 
in the habit of doing so by the cheering history of 
Robert Walker. Let us first look at the opposite 
side of the picture, in the illustrious instance of 
Newton, the pious, laborious, and eloquent minister 
of Olney. Here is a favourable specimen of the 
system of spreading the Gospel by instructing the 
mind, and sanctifying the feelings of the hearer, 
principally by oral teaching, without laying much 
stress upon the necessity for prescribed outward ob- 
servances. Yet what is the result I No one can 
read Cowpek^s beautiful letters with regard to that 
place and time, and not be painfully convinced of 
the evanescent nature of all impressions which are 
merely made by individual teaching on individual 
minds, without some external bond of union by 
which a religious society may be held together 
when the hand that first combined it has been 



Xll INTRODUCTION. 

withdrawn ; and some supply of fuel to rouse and 
rekindle the slumbering embers, when the first light 
has been extinguished or removed. Thus, nearly 
all traces of the teaching of that good man disap- 
peared almost as soon as his warning voice had 
ceased to sound in the ears of his at the time 
willing hearers.* But how different has been the 

* The following is Mr. Newton's own account of the state 
of his late parish in the hands of his successor, and that suc- 
cessor such a man as Mr. Scott. The narrative is a melancholy 
one. I 

" I was very cordially received at Olney ; the heats and ani- " 
mosities which prevailed when I was there last, seemed in a 
great measure subsided. There are, however, many who have 
left the Church, and hear among the Dissenters ; but I hope 
they have not left the Lord. Mr. Scott has some, and some of 
the best, who are affectionately attached to him, Mr. Scott is 
a good and upright man, and a good preacher, but different 
ministers have different ways. He met with great prejudices, 
and some very improper treatment, upon his first coming to 
Olney. He found several professors who had more leaves than 
fruit, more talk than grace ; his spirit was rather hurt by what 
he saw amiss, and by what he felt. By what I can learn from 
those who love him best, he is very favourable and zealous in 
reproving what is wrong ; but an unfavourable impression he 
has received, that the people at large do not like him, gives a 
sort of edge to his preaching which is not so well suited to con- 
ciliate them. The best of the Olney people are an afflicted 
people, and have been led through great inward conflicts and 
spiritual distresses, and for want of some experience of the like 
kind, he cannot so well hit their cases,nor sympathize with them 



INTRODUCTION. XUI 

result in the case of the liturgical teaching and 
Prayer -Book discipline of the humble Robert 
Walker ! Even in his native valleys, not only a 
j)ious remembrance of his character, but a willing 
obedience to his precepts, still lingers. But especi- 
ally in his descendants, numerous, and scattered, 
and often in humble circumstances as they are 
found to be, it is there that we find, — as we might 
most expect to find, — the impress of his character, 
deeply, the author hopes, indelibly impressed ; and 
showing itself in a manner most edifying to the ob- 
server, and most confirmatory of the far-seeing wis- 
dom with which our own Churches system of dis- 
cipline has been constructed. It has been the 
author's good fortune, at different periods of his 
life, to see, or to hear of various members of this 
favoured family, in almost every variety of station 

so tenderly as might be wished. He has the best intentions, 
but his natural temper is rather positive, than gentle and 
yielding. I was, perhaps, faulty in the other extreme ; but 
they had been so long used to me, that a different mode of 
treatment does not so well suit them." — 8outhe'i/s Life of 
CoivjpeTy vol. ii. p. 46. 

Here the different success of the two consecutive incumbents 
is made to turn entirely upon preaching, and that preaching 
entirely on difference of temper. Would that they had both 
sought uniformity of preaching, and of temper too, in their 
Prayer Book ! 



XIV INTRODUCTION. 

to which one single race can well be supposed 
liable ; but the result of his observation has been 
always the same. Walker^s great-grandson, the 
Eev. Robert Bamford, Vicar of Bishopton, who 
first brought this venerable patriarch into notice be- 
yond the boundaries of his native hills, by a sketch 
of his character in the columns of the Christian 
Bemembrancer^ (though partial attention had many 
years previously been drawn to him by some letters 
in the Annual Register^) was himself a clergyman of 
the highest character and promise. One of Walker''s 
daughters, Mrs. Borrowdale, who became a resident 
of Liverpool, retained to the last the habits of obe- 
dience to the Prayer Book which she had been 
taught in youth, and attended the daily service of 
St. Thomas'^s in that town, till it finally expired for 
want of the rubrical number of worshippers. But, 
by a singular coincidence, the author was brought 
into contact with this family in a way still more 
interesting to himself; and gladly would he wish to 
convey to his readers'* mind that sympathy with his 
feelings, which is necessary to enter fully into the 
moral of this little narrative. The author, some 
years ago, was presented by a friend to a living, and 
found there as curate one who had married the 
great -grand -daughter of Robert Walker. Here 
generations had passed away between the early stock 



INTRODUCTION. XV 

and the last shoot of the tree ; yet the connexion 
between the two was by no means dissevered. The 
tree might still be known by its fruit ! She was 
one — (we may speak freely of the dead, as they 
then become the common property of the Church) 
— she was one whom it was not possible to know 
and not to love. With the liberal education which 
a town residence affords, she yet retained much of 
the freshness of manner and unaffected simplicity 
of address which belong to the better-educated class 
of females in a country place, and which win the 
heart more than the finest polish of artificial man- 
ners. Her real anxiety for the comfort and pleasure 
of others, and total forgetfulness of self, formed that 
highest species of flattery which no one can resist ; 
while her attention to domestic duties, her care for 
the poor, and her punctual observance of religious 
services, combined to render her all that one wishes 
to find in that most important of all stations — - a 
curate's wife. She was proud — in the best sense 
of the word — of her descent from Robert Walker ; 
and Robert Walker would have been proud of her. 
She was so attached to the place — and a less pro- 
mising or more laborious post could hardly be con- 
ceived — that she had often been heard to declare 
that nothing should remove her from it, even should 
any chance deprive them of the curacy. At length 



XVI INTRODUCTION. 

the author resolved to resign the living ; and 
among other reasons for doing so, one (of which he 
has the least reason to be ashamed) was that he 
might be instrumental in procuring the succession 
to it for those who were so well worthy to hold it. 
But, alas ! how mysterious are the ways of Pro- 
vidence ! She, who had looked up to this event as 
the highest point of her earthly ambition, was des- 
tined never to enjoy the object of her hopes. Within 
a very few weeks after this resignation, she was 
taken off by the immediate stroke of death, by a 
complaint of which she had long entertained rea- 
sonable fears. Yet she died, as she had lived, in the 
service of her Master and His Church. She was 
found by her husband dead on the sofa, with the 
Prayer Book beside her, open at the place where she 
had just been hearing her only child, a boy of about 
eight years of age, read aloud to her, according to 
her custom, the service for the day. Thus departed 
a true descendant of Robert Walker ! Thus the 
author^s leave-taking of his late flock was converted 
into her funeral sermon. He need not add what 
topics would naturally suggest themselves as appro- 
priate to the melancholy occasion ! 

The author has thus put the reader in possession 
of some of the reasons why the character of Robert 
Walker should have been one of especial interest 



INTKODUCTION. XVll 

to himself: and he has now only to explain the 
artifice which has been employed, in order that the 
public might have it before them in all its beauty. 

It is well known to all the readers of Words- 
\voRTH, that in addition to the sketch which he has 
drawn of this primitive pastor in his great poem of 
the Excursion, he has, in his notes to his sonnets 
on the River Duddon, given a prose history of his 
life, from materials supplied by the family, in lan- 
guage of the utmost simplicity and beauty. This 
little memoir is, of course, locked up from the gene- 
rality of readers in the somewhat costly volumes of 
Mr. Wordsworth^s works ; and the author has often 
wished that it were reprinted in a separate form, for 
general perusal, as a great man^s " Records of a Good 
man''s life."" Happening then, as has already been 
said, to place the birth of his hero in the North, the 
thought occurred to him so far to attempt a sketch 
of the character of Robert Walker, as to justify 
him, in his own eyes, in presenting to the Poet the 
request (even now an unreasonable one) that he 
would permit his own true history of the Patriarch 
to accompany this little narrative into the world. 
With this request Mr. Wordsworth has kindly 
complied ; thus conferring on the author a favour 
in addition to many others previously received ; and 
affording to his reader the comfortable assurance 



XVlll INTRODUCTION. 

that, in purchasing this otherwise meagre pro- 
duction, he will at least receive, in the following 
memoir alone, something well worth his money. 

The author has only to add, that the little sketch, 
at the conclusion of the tale, of the late Rev. Joshua 
Brooks, Chaplain of the Collegiate Church, may 
probably look like a caricature to all except those 
who knew him ; and, (now that the publication is 
no longer anonymous,) that the two characters in 
the dialogue are both alike imaginary, 

Broughton Cliff, March 25, 1843. 



[from MR. Wordsworth's notes to his series 

OF SONNETS ON THE RIVER DUDDON.] 



The reader who may have been interested in the foregoing 
Sonnets, (which together may be considered as a Poem,) will not 
be displeased to find in this place a prose account of the Dud- 
don, extracted from Green's comprehensive Guide to the Lakes, 
lately published. " The road leading from Coniston to Brough- 
ton is over high ground, and commands a view of the River 
Duddon ; which, at high water, is a grand sight, having the 
beautiful and fertile lands of Lancashire and Cumberland 
stretching each way from its margin. In this extensive view, 
the face of nature is displayed in a wonderful variety of hill 
and dale ; wooded grounds and buildings ; amongst the latter, 
Broughton Tower, seated on the crown of a hill, rising ele- 
gantly from the valley, is an object of extraordinary interest. 
Fertility on each side is gradually diminished, and lost in the 
superior heights of Blackcomb, in Cumberland, and the high 
lands between Kirkby and Ulverstone. 

" The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on the banks of 
the Duddon, and on its Lancashire side it is of various eleva- 
tions. The river is^n amusing companion, one while brawling 



XX MEMOIR OF 

and tumbling over rocky precipices, until the agitated water 
becomes again calm by arriving at a smoother and less pre- 
cipitous bed, but its course is soon again ruffled, and the cur- 
rent thrown into every variety of foam which the rocky channel 
of a river can give to water." — Vide Greenes Guide to the 
Lakes, vol. i. pp. 98 — 100. 

After all, the traveller would be most gratified who should 
approach this beautiful Stream, neither at its source, as is done 
in the Sonnets, nor from its termination ; but from Coniston 
over Walna Scar ; first descending into a little circular valley, 
a collateral compartment of the long winding vale through 
which flows the Duddon. This recess, towards the close of 
September, when the after-grass of the meadows is still of a 
fresh green, with the leaves of many of the trees faded, but 
perhaps none fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point elevated 
enough to show the various objects in the valley, and not so 
high as to diminish their importance, the stranger will instinc- 
tively halt. On the foreground, little below the most favour- 
able station, a rude foot-bridge is thrown over the bed of the 
noisy brook foaming by the way-side. Russet and craggy hills, 
of bold and varied outline, surround the level valley, which is 
besprinkled with grey rocks plumed with birch trees. A few 
homesteads are interspersed, in some places peeping out from 
among the rocks like hermitages, whose site has been chosen 
for the benefit of sunshine as well as shelter ; in other instances, 
the dwelling-house, barn, and byre, compose together a cruci- 
form structure, which, with its embowering trees, and the ivy 



ROBERT WALKER. XXI 

clothing part of the walls and roof like a fleece^ call to mind 
the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, in most cases, and 
nature every where, have given a sanctity to the humble works 
of man, that are scattered over this peaceful retirement. Hence 
a harmony of tone and colour, a perfection and consummation 
of beauty, which would have been marred had aim or purpose 
interfered with the course of convenience, utility, or necessity. 
This unvitiated region stands in no need of the veil of twilight 
to soften or disguise its features. As it glistens in the morning 
sunshine, it would fill the spectator's heart with gladsomeness. 
Looking from our chosen station, he would feel an impatience 
to rove among its pathways, to be greeted by the milkmaid, to 
wander from house to house, exchanging "good-morrows" as 
he passed the open doors ; but, at evening, when the sun is set, 
and a pearly light gleams from the western quarter of the sky, 
with an answering light from the smooth surface of the mea- 
dows ; when the trees are dusky, but each kind still distinguish- 
able ; when the cool air has condensed the blue smoke rising 
from the cottage-chimneys ; when the dark mossy stones seem 
to sleep in the bed of the foaming Brook ; then, he would be 
unwilling to move forward, not less from a reluctance to relin- 
quish what he beholds, than from an apprehension of disturbing, 
by his approach, the quietness beneath him. Issuing from the 
plain of this valley, the Brook descends in a rapid torrent, pas- 
sing by the church-yard of Seathwaite. The traveller is thus 
conducted at once into the midst of the wild and beautiful 

scenery which gave occasion to the Sonnets from the 14th to 

d 



XXll MEMOIR OF 

the 20th inclusive. From the point where the Seat h wait e 
Brook joins the Duddon, is a view upwards, into the pass 
through which the River makes its way into the Plain of Don- 
nerdale. The perpendicular rock on the right bears the ancient 
British name of The Pen ; the one opposite is called Walla- 
barrow Crag, a name that occurs in several places to desig- 
nate rocks of the same character. The chaotic aspect of the 
scene is well marked by the expression of a stranger, who 
strolled out while dinner was preparing, and at his return, 
being asked by his host, " What way he had been wandering ?" 
replied, " As far as it \& finished /" 

The bed of the Duddon is here strewn with large fragments 
of rocks fallen from aloft ; which, as Mr. Green truly says, 
''^are happily adapted to the many-shaped waterfalls," (or 
rather water-breaks, for none of them are high,) '^ displayed in 
the short space of half a mile." That there is some hazard in 
frequenting these desolate places, I myself have had proof ; for 
one night an immense mass of rock fell upon the very spot 
where, with a friend, I had lingered the day before. " The 
concussion," says Mr. Green, speaking of the event, (for he 
also, in the practice of his art, on that day sat exposed for a 
still longer time to the same peril,) " was heard, not without 
alarm, by the neighbouring shepherds." But to return to Sea- 
thwaite Church-yard : it contains the following inscription. 

^* In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who died the 
25th of June, 1802, in the 93rd year of his age, and 67th of his 
curacy at Seathwaite. 



ROBERT WALKER. XXIU 

^^ Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of January, in 
the 93rd year of her age." 

In the parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this notice : 

" Buried, June 28th, the Rev. Robert Walker. He was 
curate of Seathwaite sixty-six years. He was a man singular 
for his temperance, industry, and integrity." 

This individual is the Pastor alluded to, in the eighteenth 
Sonnet, as a worthy compeer of the Country Parson of Chaucer, 
&c. In the Seventh Book of the Excursion, an abstract of his 
character is given, beginning — 

*' A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
Fall to the ground ; — " 
and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being recorded, 
will not be out of place here. 



MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER. 

In the year 1709, Robert Walker was born at Under-Crag, 
in Seathwaite ; he was the youngest of twelve children. His 
eldest brother, who inherited the small family estate, died at 
Under-Crag, aged ninety-four, being twenty-four years older 
than the subject of this Memoir, who was born of the same 
mother. Robert was a sickly infant ; and, through his boyhood 
and youth continuing to be of delicate frame and tender health, 
it was deemed best, according to the country phrase, to breed 



XXIV MEMOIR OF 

him a scholar; for it was not likely that he would be able to 
earn a livelihood by bodily labour. At that period few of these 
Dales were furnished with schoolhouses ; the children being 
taught to read and write in the chapel ; and in the same conse- 
crated building, where he officiated for so many years both as 
preacher and schoolmaster, he himself received the rudiments 
of his education. In his youth he became schoolmaster at 
Lowes-water ; not being called upon, probably, in that situ- 
ation, to teach more than reading, writing, and arithmetic. 
But, by the assistance of a " Gentleman" in the neighbourhood, 
he acquired, at leisure hours, a knowledge of the classics, and 
became qualified for taking holy orders. Upon his ordination, 
he had the offer of two curacies ; the one, Torver, in the vale 
of Coniston, — the other, Seathwaite, in his native vale. The 
value of each was the same, viz. five pounds per annum: but 
the cure of Seathwaite having a cottage attached to it, as he 
wished to marry, he chose it in preference. The young person 
on whom his affections were fixed, though in the condition 
of a domestic servant, had given promise, by her serious and 
modest deportment, and by her virtuous dispositions, that she 
was worthy to become the helpmate of a man entering upon a 
plan of life such as he had marked out for himself. By her 
frugality she had stored up a small sum of money, with which 
they began housekeeping. In 1735 or 1736, he entered upon 
his curacy ; and nineteen years afterwards, his situation is thus 
described, in some letters to be found in the Annual Register 
for 1760, from which the following is extracted ; — 



I 



ROBERT WALKER. XXV 



To Mr. 



^^ Sir, Coniston, July 26, 1754. 

" I was the other day upon a party of pleasure, about five or 
six miles from this place, where I met with a very striking 
object^ and of a nature not very common. Going into a clergy- 
man's house (of whom I had frequently heard) I found him 
sitting at the head of a long square table, such as is commonly 
used in this country by the lower class of people, dressed in a 
coarse blue frock, trimmed with black horn buttons ; a checked 
shirt, a leathern strap about his neck for a stock, a coarse 
apron, and a pair of great wooden-soled shoes, plated with iron 
to preserve them, (what we call clogs in these parts,) with a 
child upon his knee, eating his breakfast : his wife, and the re- 
mainder of his children, were some of them employed in wait- 
ing upon each other, the rest in teazing and spinning wool, at 
which trade he is a great proficient ; and moreover, when it is 
made ready for sale, will lay it, by sixteen or thirty-two pounds 
weight, upon his back, and on foot, seven or eight miles will 
carry it to the market, even in the depth of winter. I was not 
much surprised at all this, as you may possibly be, having heard 
a great deal of it related before. But I must confess myself 
astonished with the alacrity and the good humour that appeared 
both in the clergyman and his wife, and more so, at the sense 
and ingenuity of the clergyman himself." ^ * 

Then follows a letter, from another person, dated 1755, from 
which an extract ahall be given. 



XXVI MEMOIR OF 

*' By his frugality and good management, he keeps the wolf 
from the door, as we say ; and if he advances a little in the 
world, it is owing more to his own care, than to any thing else 
he has to rely upon. I don't find his inclination is running 
after further preferment. He is settled among the people, 
that are happy among themselves ; and lives in the greatest 
unanimity and friendship with them ; and, I believe, the 1 
minister and people are exceedingly satisfied with each other ; 
and indeed how should they be dissatisfied, when they have a 
person of so much worth and probity for their pastor ? A man, 
who, for his candour and meekness, his sober, chaste, and 
virtuous conversation, his soundness in principle and practice, 
is an ornament to his profession, and an honour to the country 
he is in ; and bear with me if I say, the plainness of his dress, 
the sanctity of his manners, the simplicity of his doctrine, and 
the vehemence of his expression, have a sort of resemblance to 
the pure practice of primitive Christianity." 

We will now give his own account of himself, to be found in 
the same place. 

From the Rev. Robert Walker. 

'' Sir, 
" Yours of *he 26th instant was communicated to me by Mr. 

C , and I should have i'eturned an immediate answer, but 

the hand of Providence then lying heav-' upon an amiable 



ROBERT WALKER. XXVll 

pledge of conjugal endearment, hath since taken from me a 
promising girl, which the disconsolate mother too pensively 
laments the loss of ; though we have yet eight living, all health- 
ful, hopeful children, whose names and ages are as follow : — 
Zaccheus, aged almost eighteen years ; Elizabeth, sixteen years 
and ten months ; Mary, fifteen ; Moses, thirteen years and 
three months ; Sarah, ten years and three months ; Mabel, 
eight years and three months ; William Tyson, three years 
and eight months ; and Anne Esther, one year and three 
months ; besides Anne, who died two years and six months 
ago, and was then aged between nine and ten ; and Eleanor, 
who died the 23rd inst., January, aged six years and ten months. 
Zaccheus, the eldest child, is now learning the trade of tanner, 
and has two years and a half of his apprenticeship to serve. 
The annual income of my chapel at present, as near as I can 
compute it, may amount to about £17 10s., of which is paid in 
cash, viz. £5 from the bounty of Queen Anne, and £5 from 

W. P., Esq., of P , out of the annual rents, he being lord 

of the manor, and £3 from the several inhabitants of L^ , 

settled upon the tenements as a rent-charge ; the house and 
gardens I value at £4 yearly, and not worth more ; and I be- 
lieve the surplice fees and voluntary contributions, one year 
with another, may be worth £3 ; but, as the inhabitants are 
few in number, and the fees very low, this last -mentioned sum 
consists merely in free-will offerings. 

" I am situated greatly to my satisfaction with regard to the 
conduct and behaviour of my auditory, who not only live in 



XXVlll MEMOIR OF 

the happy ignorance of the follies and vices of the age^ but in 
mutual peace and good-will with one another, and are seem- 
ingly (I hope really too) sincere Christians, and sound members 
of the Established Church, not one dissenter of any denomi- 
nation being amongst them all. I got to the value of £40 for 
my wife's fortune, but had no real estate of my own, being the 
youngest son of twelve children, born of obscure parents ; and, 
though my income has been but small, and my family large, 
yet by a providential blessing upon my own diligent endeavours, 
the kindness of friends, and a cheap country to live in, we have | 
always had the necessaries of life. By what I have written 
(which is a true and exact account, to the best of my know- 
ledge) I hope you will not think your favour to me, out of the 
late worthy Dr. Stratford's effects, quite misbestowed, for 
which I must ever gratefully own myself, 

"Sir, 
" Your much obliged and most obedient humble Servant, 

« R. W., Curate of S . 

" To Mr. C, of Lancaster." 

About the time when this letter was written, the Bishop of 
Chester recommended the scheme of joining the curacy of 
Ulpha to the contiguous one of Seathwaite, and the nomina- 
tion was offered to Mr. Walker ; but an unexpected difficulty 
arising, Mr. W., in a letter to the Bishop, (a copy of which, in 
his own beautiful hand-writing, now lies before me,) thus ex- 
presses himself, " If he," meaning the person in whom the 



ROBERT WALKER. XXIX 

difficulty originated, "had suggested any such objection before, 
I should utterly have declined any attempt to the curacy of 
Ulpha: indeed, I was always apprehensive it might be dis- 
agreeable to my auditory at Seathwaite, as they have been 
always accustomed to double duty, and the inhabitants of 
Ulpha despair of being able to support a schoolmaster who is 
not curate there also ; which suppressed all thoughts in me of 
serving them both." And in a second letter to the Bishop he 
writes : — 

"My Lord, 
" I have the favour of yours of the 1st instant, and am ex- 
ceedingly obliged on account of the Ulpha affair : if that curacy 
should lapse into your Lordship's hands, I would beg leave 
rather to decline than embrace it ; for the chapels of Seathwaite 
and Ulpha, annexed together, would be apt to cause a general 
discontent among the inhabitants of both places ; by either 
thinking themselves slighted, being only served alternately, or 
neglected in the duty, or attributing it to covetousness in me ; 
all which occasions of murmuring I would willingly avoid." 
And, in concluding his former letter, he expresses a similar 
sentiment upon the same occasion, " desiring, if it be possible, 
however, as much as in me lieth, to live peaceably with all 
men." 

The year following, the curacy of Seathwaite was again 
augmented ; and, to effect this augmentation, fifty pounds had 



XXX MEMOIR OF 

I 

been advanced by himself; and, in 1760, lands were purchased 
with eight hundred pounds. Scanty as was his income, the 
frequent offer of much better benefices could not tempt Mr. 
W. to quit a situation where he had been so long happy, with 
a consciousness of being useful. Among his papers I find the 
following copy of a letter, dated 1775, twenty years after his 
refusal of the curacy of Ulpha, which will show what exertions 
had been made for one of his sons. 

"May it please your Grace, 

"Our remote situation here makes it difficult to get the 
necessary information for transacting business regularly ; such 
is the reason of my giving your Grace the present trouble. 

" The bearer (my son) is desirous of offering himself candi- 
date for deacon's orders at your Grace's ensuing ordination ; 
the first, on the 25th instant, so that his papers could not be 
transmitted in due time. As he is now fully at age, and I have 
afforded him education to the utmost of my ability, it would 
give me great satisfaction (if your Grace would take him, and 
find him qualified) to have him ordained. His constitution has 
been tender for some years ; he entered the college of Dublin, 
but his health would not permit him to continue there, or I 
would have supported him much longer. He has been with 
me at home above a year, in which time he has gained great 
strength of body, sufficient, I hope, to enable him for perform- 
ing the function. Divine Providence, assisted by liberal bene- 
factors, has blest my endeavours, from a small income, to rear 



ROBERT WALKER. XXXI 

a numerous family ; and as my time of life renders me now 
unfit for much future expectancy from this world, I should be 
glad to see my son settled in a promising way to acquire an 
honest livelihood for himself. His behaviour, so far in life, has 
been irreproachable ; and I hope he will not degenerate, in 
principles or practice, from the precepts and pattern of an in- 
dulgent parent. Your Grace's favourable reception of this, 
from a distant comer of the diocese, and an obscure hand, will 
excite filial gratitude, and a due use shall be made of the obli- 
gation vouchsafed thereby to 

" Your Grace's very dutiful and most obedient 
" Son and Servant, 

"Robert Walker." 

The same man, who was thus liberal in the education of his 
numerous family, was even munificent in hospitality as a parish 
priest. Every Sunday, were served, upon the long table, at 
which he has been described sitting with a child upon his knee, 
messes of broth, for the refreshment of those of his congre- 
gation who came from a distance, and usually took their seats 
as parts of his own household. It seems scarcely possible that 
this custom could have commenced before the augmentation of 
his cure ; and what would to many have been a high price of 
self-denial, was paid, by the pastor and his family, for this 
gratification ; as the treat could only be provided by dressing 
at one time the whole, perhaps, of their weekly allowance of 
fresh animal food ; consequently, for a succession of days, the 



XXXU MEMOIR OF 

table was covered with cold victuals only. His generosity in 
old age may be still further illustrated by a little circumstance 
relating to an orphan grandson, then ten years of age, which I 
find in a copy of a letter to one of his sons ; he requests that 
half-a-guinea may be left for " little Robert's pocket-money," 
who was then at school ; intrusting it to the care of a lady, 
who, as he says, ^^ may sometimes frustrate his squandering it 
away foolishly," and promising to send him an equal allowance 
annually for the same purpose. The conclusion of the same 
letter is so characteristic, that I cannot forbear to transcribe it. 
" We," meaning his wife and himself, " are in our wonted state 
of health, allowing for the hasty strides of old age knocking 
daily at our door, and threateningly telling us, we are not only 
mortal, but must expect ere long to take our leave of our 
ancient cottage, and lie down in our last dormitory. Pray 
pardon my neglect to answer yours : let us hear sooner from 
you, to augment the mirth of the Christmas holidays. Wishing 
you all the pleasures of the approaching season, I am, dear Son, 
with lasting sincerity, yours affectionately, 

"Robert Walker." 

He loved old customs and usages, and in some instances 
stuck to them to his own loss ; for, having had a sum of money 
lodged in the hands of a neighbouring tradesman, when long 
course of time had raised the rate of interest, and more was 
offered, he refused to accept it ; an act not difficult to one, 
who, while he was drawing seventeen pounds a year from his 



ROBERT WALKER. XXXlll 

curacy, declined, as we have seen, to add the profits of another 
small benefice to his own, lest he should be suspected of cupidity. 
— From this vice he was utterly free ; he made no charge for 
teaching school ; such as could afford to pay, gave him what 
they pleased. When very young, having kept a diary of his 
expenses, however trifling, the large amount, at the end of the 
year, surprised him ; and from that time the rule of his life was 
to be economical, not avaricious. At his decease he left behind 
him no less a sum than £2000 ; and such a sense of his various 
excellencies was prevalent in the country, that the epithet of 
WONDERFUL is to this day attached to his name. 

There is in the above sketch something so extraordinary as 
to require further explanatory details. — And to begin with 
his industry ; eight hours in each day, during five days in the 
week, and half of Saturday, except when the labours of hus- 
bandry were urgent, he was occupied in teaching. His seat 
was within the rails of the altar; the communion-table was 
his desk ; and, like Shenstone's schoolmistress, the master em- 
ployed himself at the spinning-wheel, while the children were 
repeating their lessons by his side. Every evening, after school 
hours, if not more profitably engaged, he continued the same 
kind of labour, exchanging, for the benefit of exercise, the 
small wheel, at which he had sate, for the large one on which 
wool is spun, the spinner stepping to and fro. Thus was the 
wheel constantly in readiness to prevent the waste of a mo- 
ment's time. Nor was his industry with the pen, when occasion 
called for it, less eager. Intrusted with extensive management 



XXXIV MEMOIR OF 

of public and private affairs, he acted, in his rustic neighbour- 
hood, as scrivener, writing out petitions, deeds of conveyance^ 
wills, covenants, &c., with pecuniary gain to himself, and to the 
great benefit of his employers. These labours (at all times 
considerable) at one period of the year, viz. between Christmas 
and Candlemas, when money transactions are settled in this 
country, were often so intense, that he passed great part of the 
night, and sometimes whole nights, at his desk. His garden 
also was tilled by his own hand ; he had a right of pasturage 
upon the mountains for a few sheep and a couple of cows, 
which required his attendance : with this pastoral occupation, 
he joined the labours of husbandry upon a small scale, renting i 
two or three acres in addition to his own less than one acre of 
glebe ; and the humblest drudgery which the cultivation of 
these fields required was performed by himself. 

He also assisted his neighbours in haymaking and shearing 
their flocks, and in the performance of this latter service he 
was eminently dexterous. They, in their turn, complimented 
him with the present of a haycock, or a fleece ; less as a recom- 
pense for this particular service than as a general acknowledg- 
ment. The Sabbath was in a strict sense kept holy ; the 
Sunday evenings being devoted to reading the Scripture and 
family prayer. The principal festivals appointed by the Church 
were also duly observed ; but through every other day in the 
week, through every week in the year, he was incessantly oc- 
cupied in work of hand or mind ; not allowing a moment for 
recreation, except upon a Saturday afternoon, when he in- 



ROBERT WALKER. XXXV 

dulged himself with a Newspaper, or sometimes with a Maga- 
zine. The frugality and temperance established in his house, 
were as admirable as the industry. Nothing to which the name 
of luxury could be given was there known ; in the latter part 
of his life, indeed, when tea had been brought into almost 
general use, it was provided for visiters, and for such of his 
own family as returned occasionally to his roof and had been 
accustomed to this refreshment elsewhere ; but neither he nor 
his wife ever partook of it. The raiment worn by his family 
was comely and decent, but as simple as their diet ; the home- 
spun materials were made up into apparel by their own hands. 
At the time of the decease of this thrifty pair, their cottage 
contained a large store of webs of woollen and linen cloth, 
woven from thread of their own spinning. And it is remark- 
able that the pew in the chapel in which the family used to sit 
remained a few years ago neatly lined with woollen cloth spun 
by the pastor's own hands. It is the only pew in the chapel 
so distinguished ; and I know of no other instance of his con- 
formity to the delicate accommodations of modern times. The 
fuel of the house, like that of their neighbours, consisted of 
peat, procured from the mosses by their own labour. The 
lights by which, in the winter evenings, their work was per- 
formed, were of their own manufacture, such as still continue 
to be used in these cottages ; they are made of the pith of 
rushes dipped in any unctuous substance that the house affords. 
White candles, as tallow candles are here called, were reserved 
to honour the Christmas festivals, and were perhaps produced 



XXXVl MEMOIR OF 

upon no other occasions. Once a month, during the proper 
season, a sheep was drawn from their small mountain flock, 
and killed for the use of the family ; and a cow towards the 
close of the year, was salted and dried, for winter provision : 
the hide was tanned to furnish them with shoes. — By these 
various resources, this venerable clergyman reared a numerous 
family, not only preserving them, as he affectingly says, " from 
wanting the necessaries of life ;" but afforded them an unstinted 
education, and the means of raising themselves in society. 

It might have been concluded that no one could thus, as it 
were, have converted his body into a machine of industry for 
the humblest uses, and kept his thoughts so frequently bent 
upon secular concerns, without grievous injury to the more 
precious parts of his nature. How could the powers of intel- 
lect thrive, or its graces be displayed, in the midst of circum- 
stances apparently so unfavourable, and where to the direct 
cultivation of the mind, so small a portion of time was allotted ? 
But, in this extraordinary man, things in their nature adverse 
were reconciled ; his conversation was remarkable, not only for 
being chaste and pure, but for the degree in which it was 
fervent and eloquent ; his written style was correct, simple, 
and animated. Nor did his affections suffer more than his 
intellect ; he was tenderly alive to all the duties of his pastoral 
office: the poor and needy "he never sent empty away," — 
the stranger was fed and refreshed in passing that unfre- 
quented vale — the sick were visited ; and the feelings of 
humanity found further exercise among the distresses and 



EGBERT WALKER. XXXVll 

embarrassments in the worldly estate of his neighbours, with 
which his talents for business made him acquainted ; and the 
disinterestedness, impartiality, and uprightness which he main- 
tained in the management of all affairs confided to him, were 
virtues seldom separated in his own conscience from religious 
obligations. Nor could such conduct fail to remind those who 
witnessed it of a spirit nobler than law or custom : they felt 
convictions which, but for such intercourse, could not have 
been afforded, that, as in the practice of their pastor, there 
was no guile, so in his faith there was nothing hollow ; and we 
are warranted in believing, that upon these occasions, selfish- 
ness, obstinacy, and discord would often give way before the 
breathings of his good-will and saintly integrity. It may be 
presumed also, while his humble congregation were listening 
to the moral precepts which he delivered from the pulpit, and 
to the Christian exhortations that they should love their neigh- 
bour as themselves, and do as they would be done unto, that 
peculiar efficacy was given to the preacher's labours by recol- 
lections in the minds of his congregation, that they were called 
upon to do no more than his own actions were daily setting 
before their eyes. 

The afternoon service in the chapel v/as less numerously at- 
tended than that of the morning, but by a more serious audi- 
tory ; the lesson from the Nev/ Testament, on those occasions, 
was accompanied by Birkett's Commentaries. These lessons 
he read with impassioned emphasis, frequently drawing tears 
from his hearers, and leaving a lasting impression upon their 

/ 



XXXVlll MEMOIR OF 

minds. His devotional feelings and the powers of his own 
mind were further exercised, along with those of his family, 
in perusing the Scriptures ; not only on the Sunday evenings, 
hut on every other evening, while the rest of the household 
were at work, some one of the children, and in her turn the 1 
servant, for the sake of practice in reading, or for instruction, j 
read the Bible aloud ; and in this manner the whole was re- 
peatedly gone through. That no common importance was 
attached to the observance of religious ordinances by his family, 
appears from the following memorandum by one of his de- 
scendants, which I am tempted to insert at length, as it is 
characteristic, and somewhat curious. " There is a small chapel 
in the county palatine of Lancaster, where a certain clergy- 
man has regularly officiated above sixty years, and a few 
months ago administered the sacrament of the Lord's Supper 
in the same, to a decent number of devout communicants. 
After the clergyman had received himself, the first company 
out of the assembly who approached the altar, and kneeled 
down to be partakers of the sacred elements, consisted of the 
parson's wife, to whom he had been married upwards of sixty 
years ; one son and his wife ; four daughters, each with her 
husband ; whose ages, all added together, amounted to above 
714 years. The several and respective distances from the place 
of each of their abodes to the chapel where they all communi- 
cated, will measure more than 1000 English miles. Though 
the narration will appear surprising, it is without doubt a fact 
that the same persons, exactly four years before, met at the 



ROBERT WALKER. XXXIX 

same place, and all joined in performance of the same vener- 
able duty." 

He was indeed most zealously attached to the doctrine and 
frame of the Established Church. We have seen him congratu- 
lating himself that he had no dissenters in his cure of any 
denomination. Some allowance must be made for the state of 
opinion when his first religious impressions were received, be- 
fore the reader vrill acquit him of bigotry, when I mention, 
that at the time of the augmentation of the cure, he refused to 
invest part of the money in the purchase of an estate offered to 
him upon advantageous terms, because the proprietor was a 
Quaker ; — whether from scrupulous apprehension that a bless- 
ing would not attend a contract framed for the benefit of the 
Church between persons not in religious sympathy with each 
other ; or, as a seeker of peace, he was afraid of the uncomply- 
ing disposition which at one time was too frequently conspicu- 
ous in that sect. Of this an instance had fallen under his own 
notice ; for, while he taught school at Loweswater, certain 
persons of that denomination had refused to pay annual in- 
terest due under the title of Church-stock ;* a great hardship 
upon the incumbent, for the curacy of Loweswater was then 
scarcely less poor than that of Seathwaite. To what degree 
this prejudice of his was blameable need not be determined ; — 
certain it is, that he was not only desirous, as he himself says, 

* Mr. Walker's charity being of that kind which " seeketh not her 
own," he would rather forego his rights than distrain for dues which 
the parties liable refused to pay as a point of conscience. 



Xl MEMOIR OF 

to live in peace, but in love, with all men. He was placable, 
and charitable in his judgments ; and^ however correct in con- 
duct and rigorous to himself, he was ever ready to forgive the 
trespasses of others, and to soften the censure that was cast 
upon their frailties. — It would be unpardonable to omit that, 
in the maintenance of his virtues, he received due support from 
the Partner of his long life. She was equally strict in attend- 
ing to a share of their joint cares, nor less diligent in her ap- 
propriate occupations. A person who had been some time 
their servant in the latter part of their lives, concluded the 
panegyric of her mistress by saying to me, " she was no less 
excellent than her husband ; she was good to the poor, she was 
good to every thing ! " He survived for a short time this vir- 
tuous companion. "When she died, he ordered that her body 
should be borne to the grave by three of her daughters and one 
grand-daughter; and, when the corpse was lifted from the 
threshold, he insisted upon lending his aid, and feeling about, 
for he was then almost blind, took hold of a napkin fixed to 
the coffin ; and, as a bearer of the body, entered the Chapel, a 
few steps from the lowly Parsonage. 

What a contrast does the life of this obscurely-seated, and, 
in point of worldly wealth, poorly-repaid Churchman, present 
to that of Cardinal Wolsey ! 

" O 'uis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen, 
Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven ! " 

We have been dwelling upon images of peace in the moral 



I 



ROBEKT WALKER. Xil 

world, that have brought us again to the quiet enclosure of 
consecrated ground, in which this venerable pair lie interred. 
The sounding brook, that rolls close by the church-yard with- 
out disturbing feeling or meditation, is now unfortunately laid 
bare ; but not long ago it participated, ^\ith the chapel, the 
shade of some stately ash-trees, which will not spring again. 
While the spectator from this spot is looking round upon the 
girdle of stony mountains that encompasses the vale, — masses 
of rock, out of which monuments for all men that ever existed 
might have been hewn, it would surprise him to be told, as 
with truth he might be, that the plain blue slab dedicated to 
the memory of this aged pair, is a production of a quarry in 
North Wales ! It was sent as a mark of respect by one of their 
descendants from the vale of Festiniog, a region almost as 
beautiful as that in which it now lies. 

Upon the Seathwaite Brook, at a small distance from the 
Parsonage, has been erected a mill for spinning yarn ; it is a 
mean and disagreeable object, though not unimportant to the 
spectator, as calling to mind the momentous changes wrought 
by such inventions in the frame of society — changes which 
have proved especially unfavourable to these mountain soli- 
tudes. So much had been enected by those new powers, before 
the subject of the preceding biographical sketch closed his life, 
that their operation could not escape his notice, and doubtless 
excited touching reflections upon the comparatively insignifi- 
cant results of his own manual industry. But Robert Walker 
was not a man of times and circumstances : had he lived at a 



xlii MEMOIR OF 

later period, the principle of duty would have produced appli- 
cation as unremitting ; the same energy of character would 
have been displayed, though in many instances with widely- 
different effects. 

Having mentioned in this narrative the vale of Loweswater | 
as a place where Mr. Walker taught school, I will add a few 
memoranda from its parish register, respecting a person ap- 
parently of desires as moderate, with whom he must have beei> 
intimate during his residence there. 

" Let him that would, ascend the tottering seat 
Of courtly grandeur, and become as great 
As are his mounting wishes ; but for me 
Let sweet repose and rest my portion be. 

Henry Forest, Curate. 
Honour, the idol which the most adore, 
Receives no homage from my knee ; 
Content in privacy I value more 
Than all uneasy dignity. 
Henry Forest came to Loweswater, 1708, being 25 years of age." 

" This Curacy was twice augmented by Queen Anne's bounty. 
The first payment, with great difficulty, was paid to Mr. John 
Curwen, of London, on the 9th of May, 1724, deposited by me, 
Henry Forest, Curate of Loweswater. Y^ said 9th of May, 
ye said Mr. Curwen went to the office, and saw my name regis- 
tered there, &c. This, by the Providence of God, came by lot 

to this poor place. 

Hsec testor H. Forest." 



ROBERT WALKER. xliii 

111 another place he records, that the sycamore-trees were 
planted in the church-yard in 1710. 

He died in 1741, having been curate thirty-four years. It is 
not improbable that H. Forest was the gentleman who assisted 
Robert Walker in his classical studies at Loweswater. 

To this parish register is prefixed a motto, of which the fol- 
lowing verses are a part. 

•' Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu 
Diffugiunt, nulloque sono convertitur annus ; 
Utendum est setate, cito pede prseterit aetas." 

With pleasure I annex, as illustrative and confirmatory of 
the above account. Extracts from a Paper in the Christian 
Remembrancer, October, 1819 : it bears an assumed signature, 
but is known to be the work of the Rev. Robert Bamford, vicar 
of Bishopton, in the county of Durham ; a great-grandson of 
Mr. Walker, whose worth it commemorates, by a record not 
the less valuable for being written in very early youth. 

" His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates were 
industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, neatness, quiet- 
ness, characterised the whole family. No railings, no idleness, 
no indulgence of passion, were permitted. Every child, how- 
ever young, had its appointed engagements ; every hand was 
busy. Knitting, spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, 
making shoes, were by the different children constantly per- 
forming. The father himself sitting amongst them, and guiding 
their thoughts, was engaged in the same occupations. 



xliv 



MEMOIR OF 



" He sate up late, and rose early ; when the family were at 
rest, he retired to a little room which he had built on the roof 
of his house. He had slated it, and fitted it up with shelves 
for his books, his stock of cloth, wearing apparel, and his 
utensils. There many a cold vf inter's night, without fire, 
while the roof was glazed with ice, did he remain reading or 
writing, till the day dawned. He taught the children in the 
chapel, for there was no school-house. Yet in that cold, damp 
place he never had a fire. He used to send the children in 
parties either to his own fire at home, or make them run up 
the mountain's side. 

•»■ •«• * -X- -Sfr -St 

^^ It may be further mentioned, that he was a passionate 
admirer of nature ; she was his mother, and he was a dutiful 
child. While engaged on the mountains, it was his greatest 
pleasure to view the rising sun ; and in tranquil evenings, as it 
slided behind the hills, he blessed its departure. He was 
skilled in fossils and plants : a constant observer of the stars 
and winds : the atmosphere was his delight. lie made many 
experiments on its nature and properties. In summer he used 
to gather a multitude of flies and insects, and, by his enter- 
taining description, amuse and instruct his children. They 
shared all his daily employments, and derived many sentiments 
of love and benevolence from his observations on the works 
and productions of nature. Whether they were following him 
in the field, or surrounding him in school, he took every oppor- 
tunity of storing their minds with useful information. — Nor 



ROBERT WALKER. xlv 

was the circle of his influence confined to Seathwaite. Many 
a distant mother has told her child of Mr. Walker, and begged 
him to be as good a man. 

* -H- -K- -K- -K- -St 

" Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of seeing 
and hearing that venerable old man in his 90th year, and even 
then, the calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his sermon, 
sanctified and adorned by the wisdom of grey hairs, and the 
authority of virtue, had such an effect upon my mind, that I 
never see a hoary-headed clergyman, without thinking of Mr. 
Walker -^ ^^ ^ *, He allowed no dissenter or methodist to 
interfere in the instruction of the souls committed to his cure : 
and so successful were his exertions, that he had not one dis- 
senter of any denomination whatever in the whole parish. — 
Though he avoided all religious controversies, yet when age 
had silvered his head, and virtuous piety had secured to his 
appearance reverence and silent honour, no one, however de- 
termined in his hatred of apostolic descent, could have listened 
to his discourse on ecclesiastical history, and ancient times, 
without thinking, that one of the beloved apostles had returned 
to mortality, and in that vale of peace had come to exemplify 
the beauty of holiness in the life and character of Mr. Walker. 

■K- -5^ * -je -5^ * 

" Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous to her 
death, his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. 
But this misfortune gave him such a shock, that his con- 
stitution gradually decayed. His senses, except sight, still 

9 



Xlvi MEMOIR, ETC. 

preserved their powers. He never preached with steadiness after 
his wife's death. His voice faltered : he always looked at the 
seat she had used. He could not pass her tomb without tears. 
He became, when alone, sad and melancholy, though still 
among his friends kind and good-humoured. He went to bed I 
about twelve o'clock the night before his death. As his custom 
was, he went, tottering and leaning upon his daughter's arm, 
to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the 
open air. ^ How clear the moon shines to night ! ' He said 
those words, sighed, and laid down. At six next morning he 
was found a corpse. Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, 
and many a grateful blessing followed him to the grave." 



CHAPTER I. 



Trouble is a thing that will come without our call : but true joy will Dot 
spring up without ourselves. — Bishop Patrick's "Hearths Ease.** 



One fine day last spring — (and fine days are not so com- 
mon in Manchester, at that season of the year, as to 
make them easily forgotten) — one fine day I was cross- 
ing the new Victoria bridge, from the Manchester to the 
Salford side of the river, when my attention was arrested 
by a middle-aged person, (I had nearly written gentle- 
man, but that word would not have conveyed quite 
an accurate idea to the reader,) who was gazing very 
steadily over the battlements, at the Old Church 
Clock. He was a person whom I had often remarked 
strolling about the streets of the town, and whom I 
felt myself to be perfectly acquainted with, by sight, 
though I had no idea whatever of his name or occu- 
pation. Occupation, indeed, I felt almost assured 
he had none, or at least not one which demanded 
any considerable portion of his time ; for, besides his 
age, which was evidently too advanced to permit 
him to discharge any very laborious duties, he was more 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 



abroad in the open air, than was consistent with any 
constant or indispensable calhng. His dress was of a 
description which imphed something above want, though 
not much ; for, Hke its wearer, it had seen better days ; 
moreover, it showed its owner to be a man not given to 
change; for it was of a fashion more in vogue thirty years 
ago, than at the present time. Over a coat that had 
once been of a blacker dye than now, he wore a spencer y 
or short great-coat, buttoned up to the chin. His small- 
clothes were strictly what their name implies, closely 
buttoned at the knees. His legs were comfortably en- 
cased in thick woollen stockings, which received addi- 
tional warmth from a pair of short black gaiters, which 
clothed his ancles. Altogether he had rather the air of 
a country schoolmaster, with more scholars than fees,, 
taking the air on a half -holiday. This respectable per- 
sonage was (as I said) gazing steadfastly at the Old 
Church Clock, over the battlements of the bridge : he 
had his own watch in his hand, of ample size and antique 
appearance ; and I saw that he was going to regulate its 
time by that of the venerable old time-teller in the tower 
of the Collegiate Church. Knowing that at that mo- 
ment the Old Church clock was not, as they say *' quite 
right," (for friend Peter Clare is sometimes much more 
attentive to the accuracy of his own external appearance, 
than to the correctness of those measurers of time, 
which her majesty's subjects have committed to his re- 
gulation,) I could not resist the inclination to caution 
one, whom I almost considered an old acquaintance, 
against being led into error, by setting his own watch ta 
a clock which was at least five minutes behind the hour. 
*' My friend,'' said I, (taking out my own watch at the 
same time, to give some force to my words,) *' that clock 
is six minutes too slow." '* It may be so, sir," said he, 
looking at me quite in the way that I had looked at him, 
viz. as an old acquaintance, " it may be so, but I always 
set my watch by that clock, every week, whether it be 
right or wrong !" ''^ Indeed !" exclaimed I, " that seems 
a strange fancy." " It may be so," said he, " and per- 
haps it is. But, sir, I know that clock of old ; five and 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. S 

forty years I have gone by it, and it has never led me 
far wrong yet. It has saved me some good thrashings, 
and more hard money ; to say nothing of better things it 
has done for me. It is now the oldest friend I have in 
Manchester, and I keep up my acquaintance with it, by 
setting my watch by it every Saturday ; and, with God's 
blessing, so long as I live in Manchester, (and it is very 
likely, now, that I may live here till I die,) I will set 
my watch by that clock, be it right or wrong !" There 
was a mixture of joke and earnest in the old man's man- 
ner, as he said this, like one who feels that what he says 
seriously may yet be open to ridicule ; and I could not 
help replying, in a tone somewhat similar to his own — 
'* Well, I never heard so much said in favour of the Old 
Church clock before ! As we are walking in the same 
direction, perhaps you will give me some particulars as 
to your acquaintance with that old clock, and of the 
good which you have had out of it." ''It will be rather 
a long story, sir : but I am getting to an age when it is 
a pleasure to me to tell long stories, especially about 
myself — I have little else to do." 

Here there was a pause of some duration ; and I saw 
an anxious expression on the old man's features, either 
as if he w^as somewhat startled with the task which he 
had undertaken, or did not quite know where to begin : 
probably both feelings were in his mind, for in about 
half a minute, he raised his eyes a Httle, which had been, 
till then, fixed on the ground, and said, as if half to me 
and half to himself, " I think it will be best to begin at 
the beginning. He will like to hear of my young days, 
and it is a pleasure to me to go over them again. I was 
not, sir, born in Manchester ; indeed, I hardly ever 
knew any body that w^as ! Many come from Ireland, 
like pigs, and they live like pigs ; and many from the 
north, like woodcocks and fieldfares, — some grow fathke 
fieldfares, and some grow lean like woodcocks !" 

I now found that my new friend had some humour in 
his conversation ; and I confess, I did not like him the 
worse for it. He continued : — '* I am from the north. 



4 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

I was born in one of the wildest parts of the country 
you ever saw, in the midst of lakes and mountains. It 
has been fashionable lately to visit the lake country, but 
most persons go in their carriages or on horseback, and 
they miss the very finest parts and the grandest scenes. 
I did not think much of the beauties of the country then; 
but since I left it, and came to live in this smoky dun- 
geon, my heart has often gone back to the place of my 
birth ; and it now looks much more beautiful in my mind 
than it did then to my eyes, or than it probably would 
if I were ever to see it again. — I wonder if that will ever 
be!" — he here half whispered to himself — ''Sir, the 
house in which I was born stood in one of the most re- 
tired parts of the lake country — a spot, I dare say, never 
visited at all by strangers. They call it Yewdale. The 
house (I see it now I) was low, and built of cobbles, but 
firm as a rock; one end, indeed, had fallen in, and was 
used as a hen-roost and cart-house, but the main part of 
the house was well slated with good brown flat stones, 
out of Coniston Old Man, and had two chimneys at the 
top as tall and round as a churn. The house stood on 
the side of the hill, just where the road makes a turn to 
run right down upon Coniston Water Head. There was a 
great broad plane tree at the end of it," — '' and a large 
thorn before the door," interrupted I, '' with the top of 
it cut into the shape of a cock." " Exactly so !" ex- 
claimed he, looking up into my face with much surprise, 
" why you have seen the very place 1" " To be sure I 
have, and that the very last summer, when I was stroll- 
ing about Yewdale and Tilberthwaite, the finest part of 
all the lake country." *' Eh, sir !" said he, his native 
dialect unconsciously returning with his early recollec- 
tions, — " Eh, sir, and is it not a honny hit ? — and so the 
old cock is still crowing on the top of the old thorn!" 
" Indeed it was,'' said I ; "but as I passed by, I saw a 
ladder reared up to its side, and a decent looking man, 
apparently the owner, diligently employed, with a pair 
of shears, in cutting off the cock's tail !" " Confoimd 
Tom Hebblethwaite," said my companion, more seriously 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 5 

vexed than I thought it possible for him to be, — '* I 
wish — but I am a fool for being angry with him — what 
better could be expected from him ? At school he was 
always a stupid fellow ; he never could catch a trout out 
of the lake in his life, and whenever he tried to rob a 
hen-roost, he was sure to tumble down the ladder, and 
waken all the cocks and hens in the parish !" I was 
much amused at the reasons which the old man assigned 
why nothing good could be expected from Tom Hebble- 
thwaite, but said nothing more to provoke his indigna- 
tion, which I saw he soon became rather ashamed of. 
After a pause he regained his wonted composure, and 
proceeded : — '' In that house I was born. My earliest 
recollection is the death of my grandmother. I do not 
know how old she was, but she must have been near a 
hundred years old. I yet remember her calling me to 
her bed side, just before her death, giving me a shilling, 
which she seemed to have concealed somewhere about 
the bed-clothes, and saying, in a deep and earnest tone, 
' God bless you.' She died that night. I have never 
forgotten her blessing, and I have never parted with her 
shiUing — I never will !" There was a tear in his eye as 
he said this, and he paused for a few moments in his 
narrative. 



CHAPTER 11. 



* Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs. 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee. 
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber j 
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, 
Under the canopies of costly state. 
And luird with sounds of sweetest melody ?" 

Shakspere. 



" My early days," the old man continued, " were, as 
all the rest have been, a mixture of happiness and trou- 
bles. I believe the troubles were, at the time, rather the 
more abundant part, though, in looking back on my 
past days I remember the bright spots more distinctly 
than the dark : just as, in youth, I have stood on Yew- 
dale crag, and distinctly seen the distant top of Snafell 
in the Isle of Man, because a sunbeam happened to fall 
on it, while all was dark and indistinct around it. My 
father was a little Statesman ; by which, as you know, is 
not meant, in Cumberland, any thing like Lord John 
Russell, as such a term would be understood in Man- 
chester ; for he never, I believe, read a newspaper in his 
life; nay, probably never saw one, unless it might be 
upon Lady le Fleming's hall table, when he went, as he 
did, once a year, to Rydal, to pay his boon rent to her, as 
lady of the manor. A statesman, in Cumberland, is the 
owner of a little land ; and as proud he is of his Httle 
holding, as Sir Robert Peel can be (and proud indeed he 
may be !) of governing the state. How long we had 
lived upon this little estate, I cannot tell, nor, 1 suppose, 
any body else. There were no title deeds in existence ; 
nor, I believe, many wills, if any. When the father 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 7 

died, the son quietly buried him in Hawkshead church- 
yard, and then as quietly stepped into his shoes, '^ore 
out his old coats, (if they could be worn out,) and every 
thing went on just as before. My father was the most 
silent man I ever met with in my life. He never spoke 
unless he had something to say, and that seemed to be 
only once or twice in the course of the day. He was 
always the first up in the morning, and the last in bed at 
night, and worked like a slave on his farm from sunrise 
to sunset. Of course I could not understand his cha- 
racter then, but I have often tried to understand it since 
he was taken away, and 1 became capable of reflection. 
He never shewed me much kindness, but was never harsh;, 
though always firm. I had great respect for him, because 
I saw my neighbours had ; and I believe it is true, gene- 
rally, that children learn to value their parents a good 
deal by the way in which they see them treated by indif- 
ferent persons. All my life I have always treated parents 
with respect in the presence of their children/' 

" Thank you, my good friend," interrupted I, '* for 
that hint; I will put that down in my memorandum 
book." 

" As you please," said he, smihng, " it will at least do 
no harm there ; nor, I believe, would it do any, if you 
were to put it into practice ! But to go on with my long 
story. My mother, — sir, I do not know how I shall get 
on now. I feel a rising in my throat at the recollection 
of her very name; and though she has been dead and 
gone many a long year, yet every thing that she said, 
and every thing that she did — her quiet smile — her linsey- 
woolsey petticoat — her silver shoe-buckles — her smooth 
gray hair turned back in a roll over her calm forehead — 
her soft voice, making the broad Cumberland dialect 
sweeter, even to the ear of a stranger, than the richest 
music — her patience in pain — her unchanging kind- 
ness to me in all my wayward moods and fits of 
passion — her regularity in all her devotions, pubhc 
and private, come at this moment as fresh into my 
mind, as if she were sitting now m the corner of my 
Httle dwelling in Salford, instead of sleeping as she ha» 



8 THte OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

done for many a long year, quietly and peaceably, in the 
south-east corner of Hawkshead church-yard. There is 
no stone over her grave ; but I could find it blind-fold 
even now, though it is many a day since I have stood 
beside it — and it concerns no one else to know where it 
is but myself. I sometimes wish to be buried beside her 
— but what does it signify ? we could not know each 
other in the grave — we shall know each other, with joy 
shall meet again hereafter!" There was a passionate 
earnestness in the old man's manner as he uttered these 
last words, which differed strongly from the general quiet 
tone of his narrative. I kept silence when he paused, out 
of respect for his feelings, and waited for the return of his 
wonted calmness, which he was not long in regaining. 

" My mother taught me to read almost as soon as I 
could speak. The book she used for that purpose was 
the Testament. It was almost the only book in the 
house, except the Whole Duty of Man, and four or five 
black-letter volumes, tinged with smoke from having 
lain for ages in the chimney corner, the contents of 
which not the oldest man in all Yewdale even pretended 
to understand. By the time I was five years old, being 
a strong, hale boy, my father tried to make me useful 
about the farm, in feeding the cows, or looking after the 
sheep ; but it would not do. I had hardly strength for 
the former task ; and as to looking after the sheep, the 
temptation of joining two or three similar shepherds in 
an expedition of bird-nesting or nut- gathering, was 
always too strong to be resisted. Proving thus unequal 
to these important duties, my father determined to find 
me one which required, (in public opinion at that time,) 
abilities of a narrower range. I heard him say one night 
to my mother, after I had gone to my snug roost in the 
loft, where I generally slept like a top, — ' I think there 
is nothing for it but to make the lad a scholar — may be 
a parson.' To this my mother readily consented ; and 
the day after, I was furnished with a satchel, and sent off, 
with two or three other boys of the dale, to Hawkshead 
school, to be made a scholar ! 



CHAPTER III. 



• And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school." 

Shakspere. 



" I BELIEVE," continued the old man, " that if a man 
were to live an hundred years, — so long as to forget 
every thing else that ever happened to him, he would 
never forget the first day of his going to school ! I am 
sure / never shall. I recollect at this moment, as well 
or better than if it had taken place yesterday, every thing 
that happened, every thing that I did and saw, nay, every 
thing that I thought on that all-important day. When 
I first woke in the morning, I knew, before I opened my 
eyes, that something particular was going to happen, 
though it was some time before I was sufi&ciently wide 
awake to call to mind exactly what it was. When it at 
last flashed across me that I was that day going for the 
first time to school, I jumped into the middle of the floor, 
and was dressed, (and in my best suit of fiistians,) in 
half my usual time. I shall never forget the care with 
which my good mother packed up my little dinner in my 
bag, putting my speUing-book carefully on the top of it, 
nor the pleased look with which she put my new hat on 
my head, and bid me to ' be a good boy.' I recollect 
I thought at that time, as I started ofi^ — ' to be sure I 
shall ; how could any one doubt it !' but I said nothing : 
I was in too great haste to join my young companions, 
whom I heard hallooing out for me from the top of the 
hill. What a glorious morning it was ! I told you that 



10 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

I did not care, then, much about the scenes of nature ; 
nor did I ever much think or talk about them. It is not 
the custom in that country ; for men are there too 
familiar with them to make them the subject of their 
daily conversation. But the impression w^hich they 
made on me shows that I felt them ; for there was not a 
beam of sunshine or a cloud that crossed my path on 
that morning, which I do not recollect, at this moment, 
as distinctly as the everlasting hills over which they 
passed — never to visit them again !" A shade passed over 
the old man's countenance, and I fancied he was think- 
ing, that he himself might be compared to the cloud and 
the sunshine, never more to visit his native hills. " The 
sun was rising right over the top of Penigent, as I and 
my young companions reached the brow of the hill from 
which the road descends down upon the quiet village of 
Hawkshead. His rays just crossed the point on which 
we stood, and stretched across, like so many golden rules 
or lines of light, to the top of Coniston Old Man, and 
the side of Bowfell, leaving Yewdale and Coniston 
Water Head lost in mist and darkness. The birds were 
singing on the heights, the cattle lowing to be milked in 
the valleys below, and the sheep bleating on a thousand 
hills. The whole air was filled, as far as the eye could 
reach, with the glittering spider's web, or gossamer, of 
which nobody, I believe, could ever yet give a clear 
account ; and every bunch of heath and whin-bush was 
sparkling with drops of dew so full and large, as to seem 
ready to fall like a shower of rain upon the ground. 
There stood we, three raw lads of the dale, setting out 
in the world for the first time, and certainly looking out 
upon as bright a prospect before us, as ever cheered the 
sight of any adventurous youths, going forth to seek 
their fortunes in the world ! Alas I the prospect has often 
been sadly dimmed since then ! On many a dark scene 
have I looked, and many a melancholy pang has shot 
through my heart since I gazed down, as I did then, in 
such bright hopes and high spirits, from the top of that 
hill, upon the lowly roof of Hawkshead School ! But 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 11 

what of that ? Sorrow would have come, even if joy 
had not come before it ! and the recollections of my 
youth, instead of being a ground of repining at my after- 
lot, have a thousand times been a subject of heartfelt 
comfort ; as I have ever felt that God did not intend me 
to be miserable ; but that all my sorrow has arisen, 
either from mv own vices and follies, or from those of 
my brother-men. I have often thought, sir, what a 
contrast does my first school- day present with that of 
thousands of the poor children in this wretched town of 
ours, who go for the first time to their Infant or Sunday 
school, with no such brilliant sun to light them on their 
way, — ^with no such mountain prospects and bracing air 
to gladden their hearts, and breathe health into their 
sickly frames, — with no such well-filled satchel prepared 
by the hands of a watchful and pious mother; but 
through dingy and soot- discoloured streets, without a 
single ray of the sun, unless it be as yellow as a mari- 
gold, with but a crust of dry bread for breakfast, which 
the mother puts into her child's hand that she may at 
once indulge herself in her bed, and get rid of the care 
of her offspring for the remainder of the day. — Oh, sir 1 
too truly has it been said by the poet, 

" ' God made the country, but Man made the town.'" 

*' I fear, my good friend," said I, " that your recollec- 
tions of early youth have prejudiced you against the 
manifold benefits arising to society from the manufactur- 
ing system.'' '' By no means," said he, " by no manner 
of means ; as you shall hear by and by. But here have 
I been talking about myself in a most unreasonable way, 
and kept you waiting all the while, at the door of 
Hawkshead school ! Let us walk in, if you please !" 



CHAPTER IV. 



But come, — 1 have it : Thou shalt earn thy bread 
Duly and honourably, and usefully. 
Our village schoolmaster hath left the parish, 
Forsook the ancient school-house with its yew-trees. 
That lurk'd beside a church two centuries older, — 
So long devotion took the lead of knowledge ; 
And since his little flock are shepherdless, 
'Tis thou Shalt be promoted in his room ; 
And rather than thou wantest scholars, man, 
Myself will enter pupil. 

The Ayrshire Tragedy. 



The old gentleman's narrative had, I confess, grown in- 
teresting to me. I am always anxious, not only to study 
characters as they exist, but to learn how characters have 
been formed. I believe we all pay too Httle attention to 
this, when we blame men for their vices, or praise them 
for their virtues. If we find an oak in the forest knotted 
and gnarled, with his limbs distorted, and his trunk bend- 
ing down to the ground instead of towering majestically 
to the sky, we blame not the old oak for his deformity, 
nor reproach him with the waste of many a long year in 
which he has been visited by the refreshing dews of the 
heaven above, and the fatness of the earth beneath. We 
are sure that there were causes, though we do not now 
perceive them, which obstructed and stunted his early 
growth, and made him what he is, and must now ever 
remain. The natural soil might be barren, his early shoots 
might have been cropped by the browzing sheep, or his 
top might be overshadowed, and the beams of the sun 
prevented from cherishing his growth, by some more 
fortunate tree, which has long since fallen before the 
woodman's axe, but not till it had dried up all the vital 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 13 

energies of the withered old stump before us. And as it 
is with oaks, so, in some respects, with men. The soil in 
which they first strike root, the sunshine under which 
they grow, the influence of other minds on their early 
habits and opinions, are all to be considered when we sit 
in judgment on men in after life, and attempt to measure 
the praise or blame which is due to their moral or rehgi- 
ous conduct. It is true, that man differs from the oak 
in this, that he can take an active part in forming his own 
character. He can change his soil, seek the sunshine, 
remove from evil neighbourhood, and fly from the influ- 
ence of dangerous example. But how seldom has he 
firmness and grace for this ! How truly does he resem- 
ble the oak in this, that he becomes, through life, what 
the early circumstances of his youth have made him ! 
Hence, I am always anxious to know men's histories 
from the very beginning. Even slight matters, in child- 
hood, produce permanent effects ; and I like to hear Httle 
anecdotes of youth, which some men regard as trivial, 
because I know (as a great poet has said) that " the 
child is father to the man," and that education begins 
even with life itself. A certain French lady wished to 
consult a philosopher about the best mode of educating 
her child, and said that she was commencing at a very 
early period, as her child was but three years old : — - 
'' Madam," said the philosopher, '' you are beginning 
three years too late !" 

Hence, as I said, I was glad to find the old man so 
willing to narrate his history, and to have so perfect a 
memory of his early days, as I expected thus to learn a les- 
son in the formation of human character, the most impor- 
tant study to which the human mind can be directed. 
But I confess I was somewhat startled when he invited me^ 
as he termed it, to ''walk with him into Hawskhead school," 
as I dreaded what is commonly called a long yarn, more 
especially as the course of our walk together was now 
drawing to a termination. '' My good friend," said I, 
" I would listen to you with the greatest pleasure, but 
there is one school-boy taste which we never lose sight 



14 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

of as long as we live, viz., an accurate knowledge of the 
dinner hour; and mine, I feel, is approaching. I shall be 
most happy to resume our walk and our talk together to- 
morrow morning, when I hope we shall be able to get 
through your first school- day with mutual pleasure and 
satisfaction.'' 

" I beg your pardon," said the old man, smiling, " but 
a full stomach has seldom much feeling for an empty 
one. — Mine happens to be in that more favourable con- 
dition at the present moment, and thankful am I to God 
for it, for I can remember the day when I have been re- 
duced to feed my eyes instead of my mouth at the 
butcher's shop ! But I am really anxious to give you a 
specimen of my early school-days, because I was brought 
up under a system of instruction which is now rapidly 
passing away. At every town, and almost every village 
in the north of England, there was, and indeed still is, a 
grammar school ; generally pretty weU endowed as to in- 
come, and under the management of a master and usher, 
one if not both, educated at one of the universities of Ox- 
ford or Cambridge. All the learning required at the 
time when they were founded was Latin and Greek, and 
the masters of these schools were full of both. The 
schools were free to all who came to them, so that the 
little statesman or farmer, who happened to live near 
one of them, could give his son as good an education as 
the first nobleman in the land, and at no further expense 
than providing his child with meat and clothing. These 
lads were brought up with frugal and industrious habits, 
and told from their very childhood, that if they made 
themselves good scholars, they might hereafter become 
bishops, or judges of the land, which in those days 
often came to pass. One or two of the oldest bishops 
on the bench at this moment, sprang out of these 
grammar schools ; and many of our most distin- 
guished lawyers. But they are now, most of them, I 
hear, at a very low ebb. The school-house is falling 
down, and the little village around it, which was sup- 
ported by the pupils and boarders, is pining away. This 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 15 

is a sad blow, sir, to the poor north.— The farmer's son 
gets not that good education that he used to have, and 
is hound down for ever to his plough and his flail, in- 
stead of rising to be one of the ornaments of his country, 
and a benefactor to his poor native land. Pray, sir, 
can you account for the falling off in these good old 
schools }" 

" There are many reasons for it," said I, '' some of 
which might be removed, and some not. One reason is, 
that noblemen and gentlemen now send their sons to be 
educated either at the great pubHc schools, or at private 
academies, where they meet only vdth persons of their 
own rank, and escape the mischiefs which are sup- 
posed to arise from mixing with persons beneath them 
in birth or station. — Great folly this. The best part of 
education consists in becoming acquainted, in early life, 
when the passions and perceptions are strong, with per- 
sons of every class, and all degrees of talents and opin- 
ions. Thus, asperities are softened, and a knowledge of 
men and manners is obtained, which can be acquired so 
easily in no other w^ay. England is what it is, by this 
early admixture of high and low, rich and poor, one with 
another ; and it will cease to be old England, free, liberal, 
and religious England, when men are taught to consider 
each other as almost belonging to a different race of be- 
ings from their very cradles. Every man is an ignorant 
man who only knows his own class.'' 

*' You are quite right there sir," said the old man, 
" and all the experience of my long life proves it. I 
have seen a thousand times, that if men knew a Httle 
more of each other, half their prejudices on the subjects 
of reHgion, politics, and other causes of division, would 
vanish away at once : and these good old schools were 
great helps in making youths of all classes know and un- 
derstand each other." 

*' Another reason for their falHng away," said I, '' was 
their standing still while the world went on. They 
taught Latin and Greek, when Latin and Greek were 
the only necessary knowledge, and the only passports to 



16 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

wealth and distinction ; and so long as that was the case, 
all classes were satisfied with them. — But the world soon 
wanted other knowledge. — It wanted arithmetic, land- 
surveying, engineering, and a thousand other things by 
which men make money, and get on in the world. But 
these things grammar schools could not or would not 
teach. So boys were sent to other places, where wise 
men, or pretenders to wisdom, professed to teach all that 
is necessary for these very enlightened times ; and the 
old school benches soon became empty. There, gram- 
mar schools were wrong; — they should have adapted 
themselves more to the wants of the times ; and then 
they might have flourished as of old, to the great benefit 
of the whole nation. But I am forgetting your story, 
and what is more, forgetting my dinner. Till we meet 
tomorrow, farewell !" 



CHAPTER V. 



You call this education, do you not ? 
Why, 'tis the forced march ot a herd of bullocks 
Before a shouting drover. The g-lad van 
Move on at ease, and pause a while to snatch 
A passing morsel from the dewy greensward ; 
While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation, 
Fall on the croupe of the ill- fated laggard 
That cripples in the rear. 

Old Play. 



*' Well, sir/' said the old man, smiling, as we met at 
the appointed spot about one o'clock, " now for Hawks- 
head school ! I hope you have brought all your stock 
of patience with you, and no appetite for any thing be- 
yond my little adventures on my first appearance under 
the frown of a schoolmaster." 

" Speaking of appetites," said I, interrupting him, 
'* and seeing what I now see before me, reminds me of a 
good joke against myself, which took place when I first 
knew Manchester. I was standing upon this bridge, (or 
rather its predecessor the old bridge, for the Victoria 
was not then built,) at this hour of the day, when sud- 
denly I saw a rush of men, women, and children upon 
it, from the Manchester side, which astonished me not a 
little. I should think there could not be fewer than 
three or four hundred of them : all posting along at a 
great pace, with a good deal of anxiety and determination 
written on their countenances ; and, though they said 
not a word to each other, with evidently one common 
object in view. They were rather shabbily dressed, and 
clearly belonged to one class of society. The imagina- 
tion immediately conjured up various startling reasons 
for this unexpected concourse, such as a fire, a fight, or 
a radical meeting. Seeing one solitary individual who 



lb THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

was standing still, like myself, to let the crowd pass by, 
and whose countenance seemed to express that he was 
quite aware of the cause of this irruption into Salford, 
I could not resist the temptation of speaking to him, and 
said — ' My good friend, where are all these people going 
to !' ' To their dinners,' said he, quietly and with a grin 
on his face, that made me ashamed of my ignorance, and 
which raises a smile on my cheek every time I see the 
same sight, which any man may do who stands here at 
one o'clock in the day, and sees the workmen of Man- 
chester hasten home to their dinners in Salford/' 

*' Many a marvellous story," said the old man, " has 
arisen out of a much less plausible foundation. 

'' Well, sir, to my tale. — There stood I, an anxious 
and trembling little boy, for the first time in my life at 
the door of a school. What a large and awful place I 
thought it ! The very outside frightened me almost be- 
yond endurance, and then, I thought, what is going on 
within ! My fears were more than realized on entrance ; 
for the first thing that caught my eye was the head mas- 
ter himself, — old Bowman, sitting in awful state at the 
head of the school, with a great buzz wig on his head, 
and a most formidable ferula lying on the desk before 
him. The old oak benches, cut and carved with names, 
some of which, insignificant as they then were, are now 
recorded in the history of our country, seemed formidable 
in my eyes, as compared with the smaller articles of the 
same kind in my own home ; and the sight of so many 
boys all gathered together, and all bus}'^ at their own oc- 
cupations, made my poor little head almost spin round 
in confusion. I and my companions were, of course, as 
new comers, placed on the lowest form, and had to 
wait our turn to be called upon by the master of the 
lower school. During that time I had leisure to look 
around me, which I did with fear and trembling. At 
the head of the school, next to the master, sat Joshua 
Prince, of whom I had often heard as the first boy in the 
school, and a great favourite with the master. With 
what a feeling of admiration did I regard him ! He was 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 19 

the son of a miller in the neighbourhood ; but having 
sho\vn great talents in early life, his parents determined 
to give him a good education and send him to college, 
in hopes that he might hereafter rise to eminence and 
distinction. Nor did he disappoint their expectations. 
He carried off the highest honours of his university, and 
is noM^ one of the proudest boasts of Hawkshead school 
— thanks to good old archbishop Sandys for having 
built and endov^ed it ! I don't know hov^ it is, sir, but I 
am as proud of Joshua Prince, and my old school, as if I 
had succeeded like Joshua in the v^orld, instead of being 
what I am ! Weil, at last we were called up ; and never 
shall I forget the anxiety of that moment ! Of course, I 
was at the bottom of my class, and some boys much 
older and bigger than myself were at the top. But I 
now found the advantage of my good mother's early care, 
and soon discovered that I was by no means the worst 
scholar among them. At last we came to spelling : — 
' Spell kingdom,' said the master to the first boy in the 
class, in a voice of thunder. — ' K, i, n, d, o, m,' said the 
boy ; (and that boy, you must know, was Tom Hebble- 
thwaite, the very person whom you saw last summer 
cutting off the old cock's tail — I dare say he was thinking 
of me at the very time) — ' k, i, n, d, o, m,' said Tom : 'g' 
exclaimed I from the bottom of the class. ' That's right,' 
said the master, ' stand up !' So there was I, raised at 
once from the bottom to the top, covered with glory ! 
Tom made room for me very slowly, but the eye of the 
master was upon him, and he gave way. At last the 
day was over, and, as I thought, most triumphantly for 
myself: but I was wofully mistaken I No sooner had 
the school broken up, and the masters left for their own 
homes, than I saw Tom approaching me in the school- 
yard, evidently with no friendly intentions. ' So !' said 
he, 'you think yourself, I dare say, a very fine fellow — 
/ think you a mother's darling,' — accompanying this 
very civil speech with a box on the ear. My blood 
was roused at this, more especially as he sneered at 
my mother, which to my feelings was past endurance ; 



20 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK, 

and, though scarcely half his size, I turned fiercely round 
upon him, and fairly knocked him down ! ' A battle ! 
a battle !' was immediately the cry through the school- 
yard ; and though half the boys had seemed to be dis- 
persed for their homes, yet somehow their ears seemed to 
catch this delightful sound in a most extraordinary man- 
ner, and the whole school was round us in an incredibly 
short space of time. A ring was immediately formed, 
and due preparations were made for the contest, accord- 
ing to the laws of that brutal sport which had prevailed 
in the school from time immemorial, — Joshua Prince 
being at the head. How I felt the injustice of that mo- 
ment ! and though I have in some degree changed my 
opinion on the subject since, yet I feel much of that in- 
justice to the present day. My opponent, as I have said, 
was almost twice my size and strength, and was actuated 
by the worst and most malignant feelings, — jealousy and 
revenge : I had nothing to support me, except a sense of 
injustice done me, and a resolution to obtain a character 
for manliness which I knew to be essential to a school- 
boy. I hoped, therefore, that the bystanders would see 
the unfairness of such a contest, and interfere in my 
behalf. But no ; they were too anxious for what they 
called ' the sport,' to give one thought to the merits of 
the case. I looked imploringly at Joshua Prince, expect- 
ing to see a friend in him at least ; but his eye was inex- 
orable, and, like the rest, he was eager for the battle. 
We fought — he for revenge, I for honour — but in des- 
pair ! As might be expected, I was severely bruised and 
beaten, yet 1 scorned to yield the victory as long as I 
was able to resist, and the issue was what neither of the 
combatants expected. In his eagerness to secure the 
victory, Tom at last struck me when I was on the ground. 
A cry of ' foul, foul,' was immediately raised, and I was 
taken up from the ground and carried round the yard by 
my schoolfellows, and formally proclaimed victor by the 
whole school ! Tom was forced to admit the justice of 
this decision, and slunk away full of shame and disap- 
pointment. So there was I, like many another conqueror. 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 21 

with no other laurels to show as the fruit of my victory 
than the injuries which I had received during the contest. 
It is true I had gained the respect of my schoolfellov/s, but 
I had paid dearly for it, both in body and mind. A cloud 
had been cast over the sunshine of my first school -day ; 
and what was worse, I had, in this pKght, to face the 
anger of my father, and the anxious looks of my poor 
expecting mother." 



CHAPTER VI. 



I've wander'd far, I've wander'd near, 

I've liv'd with low and high, 
But ne'er knew I a thing so dear 

As my own Mother's eye ! 

It swell'd with grief, when grief was mine ; 

It beam'd, when joy was given ; 
On earth no sun like it could shine — 

How glows it now, in Heaven ! 



'' How changed to my eye was now that mountain road, 
by which, in the early morning, I had hastened, full of 
joy* and expectation, to Hawkshead School ! Not that 
there was any change in reality ; for the evening sun 
shone as bright in the West over my returning path, as 
its morning beams had gilded my eastern track. The 
cows were once more lowing in the valleys for the even- 
ing milking. The cuckoos were shouting to each other 
from glen to glen, as if they alone had a right to be heard 
in their own domain. The lark was whistling a highland 
fling in the sunbeams, and dancing to his own merry 
music in the very centre of the sky. But all this was 
lost upon me ; for my spirits had sunk to the very lowest 
point of despair, and I was thinking, in melancholy sad- 
ness, of the reception I should meet with at home, all 
black and bruised as I was ; and of the blank which 
would sadden my poor mother's face, when she hastened 
to meet me, and hear my account of the adventures of 
the day. My little companions, to do them justice, sym- 
pathized with my feelings ; for though they said little to 
comfort me, yet they restrained their boyish mirth within 
a reasonable compass ; and tried to conduct themselves 
as if nothing particular had happened — all that could be 
expected from youths like them. I shall never forget my 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK, 23 

feelings when Dash rushed out, wagging his tail, and 
bounding wdth joy at my approach, and then, suddenly 
looking me in the face, turned round with his tail be- 
tween his legs, and ran into the house as though he had 
been guilty of some serious doggish fault, and expected 
instant chastisement ! ' Surely,' thought I, ' if Dash does 
not know me, my own mother wont !' and so it proved ; 
for at first sight she hardly recollected who it was, so 
changed was I in appearance. But her experience in the 
history of schoolboys was much greater than my own ; 
and I saw at once that she comprehended the whole 
matter before I had said a word to her. She looked 
deadly pale for a moment ; but all she said was, — ' My 
dear boy, are you to blame for this ?' ' No, mother, I am 
NOT,' said I, with a firmness which I saw at once carried 
conviction to her heart, and I felt I had made peace 
with one of my parents. But the worst, I knew, and so 
did my mother, was yet to come. My father was of an- 
other stamp, and viewed matters in another hght. He 
saw, too, and comprehended at a glance what had hap- 
pened ; but, quite independent of the right or wrong of 
the question, his determination was that all such pro- 
ceedings should be put down with the strong hand. I 
saw, therefore, that I was to be severely beaten ; for my 
father w^as not one who did these things by halves. It 
was not anger, it was not want of feeling, that impelled 
him to this course ; it was a strong, though in this case 
surely a mistaken, sense of duty. My mother and I, 
both knowing his character and feelings, knew it w^as in 
vain to remonstrate ; so I stood with terror, and my poor 
mother stood as pale as death, prepared for the worst. 
Just at that moment, and when the feelings of all 
the party, my father's included, were almost past endu- 
rance, the door flew open with some violence, and Joshua 
Prince stood in the middle of the room ! ' Dont strike 
the boy,' said he, in a firm voice that seemed resolved to 
be listened to, — ' dont strike the boy, for he does not de- 
serve it.' Had an angel from heaven appeared to us at 
that moment, my mother and I could not have been more 



24 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

delighted, nor hardly more startled than we at first were 
at his most unexpected and most timely appearance ; and 
in truth, I believe my father was not the least relieved of 
the whole party. The uplifted rod dropped by his side, 
as it were by instinct ; and he looked at Joshua with an 
expression of respect which led me to hope that the crisis 
of my fate was past. In the neighbourhood of large 
grammar schools there is always much interest felt in 
their proceedings among those inhabitants of the district 
who have little or no immediate connexion with them. 
They are proud of the success of the best scholars — 
even those who are no scholars whatever themselves — 
and the head boy of a school is always spoken of with 
great respect, especially by those who are in any way 
connected with the place, either through their children or 
their own early education. My father, therefore, had a 
strongfeeling of almost reverence for JoshuaPrince, though 
he had hardly ever seen him before ; and would have at 
once obeyed him, even in a matter less agreeable to his 
feelings. The rod, therefore, at once fell idly to his side. 
*' * I thought it possible,' continued Joshua, ' that you 
might beat him, and so I came to tell you that he does 
not deserve it. He was ill-used by Tom Heblethwaite, 
and he fought like a man. Send him to school to-mor- 
row, and I will see that he comes by no harm — good 
night!' — and Joshua disappeared in the gloom. Now, 
sir, you may talk of great and generous actions, but I do 
not think you will easily mention one which, as far as it 
goes, will surpass this of Joshua Prince. You will re- 
collect that he was, after all, but a boy ; young and 
thoughtless ; delighted with the battle, and pleased that 
he had done justice to the conqueror, if such I could 
be called. He lived down the valley towards Newby 
Bridge, nearly four miles from school, and in almost an 
opposite direction to Yewdale. Yet all at once, when 
more than half way home, and with the prospect of sup- 
per before a hungry boy brightening as he goes, it flashes 
across his mind that I may possibly be chastised unde- 
servedly for the day's occurences, and he hesitates not a 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 25 

moment as to what steps he should take. He turns 
aside across hill and valley, bog and stream, where there 
is no footpath even for the goat, forgets his supper and 
his evening fishing-rod, and all to save a little boy whom 
he never saw before from a beating which, from its 
frequency at school, and from the way in which he had 
encouraged the battle, he might have been expected to 
care very little about. Nor was it the beating that he 
cared about. It was its injustice that dwelt upon his 
mind. The brave have an instinctive admiration of 
bravery ; and he did not like to think that the little boy 
should be ill-used, or rather misunderstood, who had 
shown such firmness and courage in the school-yard. 
These were Joshua's motives; and verily he had his reward. 
The gratitude towards him of our whole family, including 
my sister, (of whom I shall speak by and by,) was such 
that there was nothing that we would not have done for 
his sake. Yet he never seemed to expect any thing ; or 
to show that he thought himself to have done any thing 
extraordinary. He paid me very little attention at school; 
none, in fact, beyond what he showed to most of the 
younger boys ; except that when any injury was attempted 
towards me by any of those who were stronger than my- 
self, he was always ready to see justice done me. Fa- 
vouritism he scrupulously avoided. An acquaintance 
between us thus commenced, which ripened almost into 
friendship as I grew older, and before he left us for col- 
lege. But, what is most remarkable, his kindness to- 
wards me seemed to increase, rather than diminish, by 
absence. Many a kind message of advice did he send 
me by fellow-pupils while I remained at school ; and he 
has more than once visited me in my quiet dwelling in 
Salford, though he has had an earl's son under his care ; 
and has brought him to see the ways of Manchester, and 
taught him to sympathize with its toiling population. 
These, sir, are the links, which bind all the parts of 
English society together, stronger than chains of brass ! 
These good old schools are Hke rivets which run through 
the whole body politic ; hence it was that the earl's son, 

E 



26 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

Joshua Prince, and your humble servant, became fast 
friends for life!" 

The old man's face glowed as he said this, with a feel- 
ing which showed that he was a patriot to the back bone. 
His poverty, and his age, in the ardour of the moment, 
were quite forgotten. — His school-days were as fresh on 
his mind as if they had hardly yet passed away ; and I 
felt thankful to Providence as I experienced how deeply 
he has infused happiness into natures and conditions 
where the hasty observer might scarcely be able to ob- 
serve a trace of it. 

He continued — '* I will not detain you longer with the 
history of my school- days ; I have something far more 
important, and I hope, more interesting to speak of, — 
my first religious impressions. But I cannot help just 
mentioning one early companion who was soon lost to 
us all, but whose character made a deep impression upon 
myself and many of my school-fellows. He was but the 
son of a poor labourer, but showed an early talent for 
poetry, and produced some pieces of very great merit, 
which I wish I could recollect now, as they would be a 
comfort to me in my solitary hours ; but he sank, in de- 
cline, to an early grave ; and all his verses, I fear, died 
with him ; for though many of his poems were com- 
mitted by his school-fellows to memory, yet none have 
recorded any of them in writing." 

''Your story," said I,- ''reminds me of an exactly 
similar case, (and doubtless there are hundreds such,) 
which happened nearly thirty years ago, at a school very 
like your own, — that of Richmond, in Yorkshire. Poor 
Herbert Knowles was, like your young companion, 
taken from one of the lowest stations in life, and sent by 
kind friends to Richmond school, with the intention of 
his being afterwards removed to college. But the hand 
of death was upon him. He was of a gentle and pious 
mind, and of a sickly frame. He knew that his days 
were fast drawing to a close, and a few weeks before he 
died he wrote the following verses at night in Richmond 
Church-yard, which show the way in which he looked 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 27 

death in the face, and the faith and hope which pointed 
beyond the grave. As you are fond of poetry, I will 
repeat the verses to you, and they may perhaps some- 
what console you for the loss of your friend's : — 

' LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND, 
YORKSHIRE, BY HERBERT KNOWLES. 

It is good/or us to be here : if Thou wilt let us make here three 
tabernacles, one for Thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias. 
Matthew, xvii. 4. 

Methinks it is good to be here ; 

If Thou wilt, let us build : but for whom 1 

Nor Elias nor Moses appear, 
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, 
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition T Oh, no ! 
Affrighted he shrinketh away : 

For see, the}^ would pin him below 
In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

To Beauty! Ah, no ! she forgets 

The charms which she wielded before ; 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore 
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
The trappings which dizen the proud I 

Alas ! they are all laid aside ; 
And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd 
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. 

To Riches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain ; 

Who hid, in their turns have been hid : 

The treasures are squandered again, 
And here in the grave are all metals forbid 
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford * 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board. 
But the guests are all mute at their pitiful cheer. 
And none but the worm is a reveller here. 



28 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
Ah no ! they have wither'd and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above : 
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, 
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 

Unto Sorrow 1 The dead cannot grieve, 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which compassion itself could relieve : 
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear; 
Peace, peace is the watch, word, the only one here. 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow 1 
Ah, no ! for his empire is known ; 

And here there are trophies enow : 
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 

The first Tabernacle to Hope we will build. 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilFd ; 
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
Who bequeath'd us them both when He rose to the skies !' " 

" This is poetry," exclaimed the old man, when I had 
finished reciting the above beautiful lines, — " and piety 
as well as poetry. The youth who, with his own death 
full in view, could give utterance to such holy thoughts, 
and in the darkness of the night, with the dead of old 
lying around him and beneath his feet, must surely be 
gone to heaven !" 



CHAPTER VII. 



- As in those days 



When this low pile a Gospel Teacher knew. 
Whose good works form'd an endless retinue : 
Such priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays ; 
Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew ; 
And tender Goldsmith crown'd with deathless praise ! 

Wordsworth. 



'* I AM now." the old man continued, " approaching the 
most important period of my hfe. My school- days glided 
away peaceably, and in some measure, profitably. I was 
quite able and willing to learn every thing required of 
me by my masters, and had plenty of time to spare to 
follow all those various sports and amusements which 
occupy the time and thoughts of rustic lads in mountain 
regions. Bird-nesting, fishing, wrestling, hunting, came 
each in their turn with the change of the seasons ; and I 
was growing up a hale, strong youth, happy in my home^, 
and in good humour with myself and all the world : and, 
sir, I cannot help remarking, by the way, that good 
humour, like charity, ' begins at home ;' for I never knew 
any one yet who was dissatisfied and out of sorts with 
persons or things around him, who had not first quar- 
relled with himself." 

" I really thing there is much truth in that remark of 
yours," said I. 

'* Depend upon it there is," he continued. " Well, 
my happiness at that period of my Hfe might be said, as 
far as human happiness could be, — to be perfect. But 
yet the religious state of my mind was not quite satisfac- 
tory. I had learned, and not only well remembered, but 
understood, every thing with regard to religion which 



30 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

was taught us at school ; and that, beheve me, was not 
little. We were taught to repeat our Catechism, with 
Archbishop Wake's explanation of it, every week. We 
read the Bible as a school-book, till we could almost 
repeat it from beginning to end ; and every story in it 
was as familiar to my mind as the Lord's Prayer. I 
know many have a strong objection to the use of the 
Bible as a school-book, but I confess I am not among 
the number. On the contrary, I hold that familiarity 
with the Scriptures in childhood is the only way in which 
a knowledge of them can be so deeply impressed upon 
the memory, as that the passages which we want shall 
always be at hand to serve us at every turn. As we get 
older we may understand what we read better, but we do 
not remember it so clearly or so long. What I read 
now, slips away almost as soon as the book is laid down ; 
but what I learned then, is as fresh in my memory as my 
school-day sports, or my first companions in life. I know 
it is objected, that an early familiarity with the Scriptures 
is apt to bring them into contempt, and that we are 
liable to attach false meanings to passages, which some- 
times cling to us through the rest of our lives. But 
surely, if this be the effect, the fault is rather in those 
who put the Scriptures into our hands, than in our early 
youth, in which we first begin to read them. I only know 
that I learned to reverence even the outside of the book 
of God's Word from my poor mother's reverent manner 
of using it. She never opened the volume without an 
expression of countenance which showed that she felt 
herself at that moment to be in the more immediate pre- 
sence of her Maker ; and I still look upon the corner in 
which it was always put aside, and call to mind its black 
cover, with her horn spectacles resting upon it, with as 
much respect as the Roman Catholic is said to regard 
the image of his saint. Mine, however, is no supersti- 
tious reverence, but a pious regard for the Word of God, 
and her from whose lips I was first taught it ; and, sir, 
when I read my Bible now, which I hope I do not much 
neglect, I combine pleasure as well as well as profit, — it 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 31 

brings back to me the happy recollections of my youth, 
as weU as affords the consolations of old age." 

" I quite agree with you/' said I, ''as to the advan- 
tages of an early acquaintance with the Bible. Whether 
it should be made a school-book or not, depends entirely 
upon the capabilities and sound principles of the teacher." 

" There you are right," said he ; " but mine were like 
' the words of king Lemuel, which his mother taught 
him :' and old Bowman, to do him justice, drilled the 
somewhat dry catechism of the good Archbishop pretty 
soundly into my memory. Yet, as far as I can recollect, 
I had not at that time any very distinct notions of the 
value of the Gospel, as distinct from natural religion, and 
the obvious duty of doing as I was taught. I knew all 
the facts of Christianity perfectly. I could tell all the 
events of our Saviour's life, and enumerate accurately 
eYery doctrine taught by Himself and His apostles. I knew 
the necessity of unity in the Catholic Church, and under- 
stood the Creeds by which that unity was intended to be 
secured. But I did not see how these things applied to 
myself, as guides for my own thoughts and actions. 
My real religion, I believe, as far as I can call back my 
thoughts at this distance of time, consisted a good deal 
in fear, both of God and man. My father, as I have 
said, was a strict disciplinarian ; his word was law : and 
my fear of God, I cannot help thinking, arose almost 
naturally out of the situation in which nature had placed 
me. In very early life, — as far back as I can recollect 
anything, — I underwent great alarm from what is a 
common occurrence in that mountain range — a terrific 
thunder storm. The effect of the lightning in that land 
of hiU and valley, is very striking ; and was never more 
so than on that well-remembered day ! Sometimes it 
seemed to dance in wanton playfulness on the side of the 
mountain, and sometimes to split it from the top to the 
bottom. Then the echoing thunder ran up one valley 
and down another in that land of seams and ridges^ 
coming back agam to the place which it had left, with a 
voice hardly weakened by its circuit ; and there, joining 



32 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

a new and equally loud report, the bellowing became as 
confused and endless as it was startling. Then came 
the thunder- shower, not in drops of rain, but solid sheets 
of water. The white cataracts began foaming and rush- 
ing down the side of every hill, and gushing out of every 
opening in the valleys, till they swelled our little stream 
that winds beneath the house into a mighty and irresis- 
tible torrent, sweeping every thing before it towards the 
lake with rapid and resistless fury. But what most 
impressed my mind at the moment, was to see a poor 
innocent sheep, as well known to me by face as Dash 
himself, hurled down by the current, and bleating pite- 
ously, but in vain, for help ! This scene, and scenes like 
these, made a deep impression on my mind ; and I began 
to entertain a constant and solemn feeling of the con- 
tinual presence and irresistible power of God. This 
thought was uppermost in my mind from morning till 
night ; in the fields and on my bed. It was doubtless 
valuable to me as a guide to duty> but it gave a gloomy 
turn to my thoughts which was inconsistent with the 
buoyant feelings of youth, and, as I have since discovered, 
not in harmony with the true spirit of the Gospel. 

But I must now introduce to you another member of 
our family, to whom I have as yet hardly alluded, for 
many painful reasons, but whose history now begins to be 
blended with mine in a manner which renders all farther 
avoidance of her tale impossible. I refer to my poor 
sister Martha ! She was several years older than myself ; 
and at the time I am now speaking of, had arrived at 
woman's estate. She was a splendid specimen of a fine 
well- grown mountain girl, except that she was rather 
paler than exactly suits the taste of the hardy moun- 
taineer ; her paleness, however, arose, I believe, not 
from any delicacy of frame, but from habitual thought- 
fulness. How she was admired and sought after by the 
shy rustics of the neighbourhood ! and, above all, how 
she was beloved by myself ! Alas ! — in the language of a 
friend of mine, who, though unknown to fame, is a true 
poet — at that period of her short life, 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 33 

^ The liquid lustre of her eye 
Had ne'er been dimm'd by fond hopes blighted; 

The halo of serenity 
Still kept her marble forehead lighted !' 

" Her kindness to me seemed to arise from her having 
united the feehngs of a sister and a mother towards 
me. She was so much older than myself as to be 
justified in using, as she sometimes did, the language of 
authority ; and yet not so far removed from me in years, 
but that she could look upon me as a brother, and that 
I could treat her (as I too often did) with at least a 
brother's freedom. Thus, as I grew older, and my mind 
expanded from the instruction I received at Hawkshead, 
I became more and more to be regarded by her as a 
companion and less as a child. Thus she, who had been 
a check upon me and a teacher, now began at times to 
learn something from me, of which you may well sup- 
pose that I was very proud ; whilst I was daily growing 
in admiration of her industry, piety, and patience. She 
assisted her mother in all the female labours of the house 
and the little farm, and yet always kept herself as neat 
and nice as if she had nothing else to do. All at once, her 
manner began to change. Instead of her constant cheer- 
fulness, she became anxious and absent, though by no 
means fretful or impatient. Her paleness visibly increased, 
and her step grew less elastic and hght. She occasionally 
absented herself from home without mentioning where 
she had been, or asking me, as she used formerly to do, 
to accompany her. This was noticed by myself long 
before it was perceived, or at least mentioned, by either 
my father or my mother; for I began to entertain a 
jealous feeUng that her affections were, from some cause 
or other, weakening towards me ; yet, as she never men- 
tioned the subject herself, a feeling of pride or obstinacy 
checked me from being the first to seek an explanation. 

" We stood in this situation with regard to each other 
just at the time when I was approaching fourteen years 
of age, and a rumour ran through the country that the 
Bishop was about to visit Ulverston for the purpose of 



34 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

holding a Confirmation. This, as you may suppose, 
caused a great sensation among the youths of my age in 
that retired neighbourhood, for visitations were not so 
frequent then as they fortunately are now, though surely 
if they were still more frequent, it would be a great bless- 
ing to the country. For this solemn rite it was neces- 
sary that I should be prepared. But we were a long 
way from our parish church of Seathwaite, and we had 
been in the habit, for nearness, of frequenting Torver 
chapel, though not resident in the district. I confess I 
looked forward to this preparation with a mixed feeling 
of alarm and curiosity. I was alarmed for fear that I 
should be found sadly deficient in the information neces- 
sary to justify me in appearing before the Bishop ; and I 
was curious to know what steps my parents proposed to 
take to have me trained for the proper participation in 
this solemn rite. I confess that a willingness to post- 
pone what I considered a somewhat evil day prevented 
me from asking any questions on this subject. At last 
I overheard a conversation between my parents one night 
after we had retired to rest (for our rooms were so near, 
and the doors and walls so full of chinks, that every- 
thing that passed was distinctly heard from one room to 
another) which led me to expect that the very day after, 
I was to be put in a train for preparation ; but how, I 
had no means of gathering. Accordingly, after the usual 
morning's work of the farm was over, my father (which 
was very unusual with him) went to his room to put on 
his Sunday's clothes ; and my mother, with a pleased 
yet anxious expression on her countenance, directed me 
to do the same. I asked no questions, for the reason I 
have just mentioned, but quietly obeyed. We were soon 
on the way together. 

" It was a fine bright autumn morning, when we set off 
on this remarkable pilgrimage ; I feeling that nothing 
but a most important matter could have induced my 
father to lose a day's work at this season of the year, 
and my father and mother observing a perfect silence, 
both apparently wrapped up in their own thoughts. 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 35 

Our way lay by a cart-track that led right up to the top 
of Walna Scar, a fine bold clifF, which I dare say you 
have climbed, for sight- seers find it a noble point for a 
prospect on their way between Coniston and Seath- 
WAiTE. It was the time of the year when the farmers 
in that country cut their turf for their winter stock of 
firing, and all the able-bodied population are then to be 
found assembled at their work on the hills. I felt as- 
sured therefore, that my parents were seeking some 
labourer in the place where he was sure, at that season, 
to be found ; but how this could possibly concern me, I 
could not conjecture. At last, after a toilsome climb, 
we reached to the top of Walna ; and there lay before 
us a prospect, such as the eye can command, I should 
think, in few other regions of the globe ! Mountains of 
all shapes and sizes lay tossed in wild confusion around 
us, like the billows of a stormy sea ! Lakes sparkled at 
our feet like looking-glasses for the giants ; while the 
mighty western ocean bounded almost half the prospect 
round, as with a silver girdle. But this prospect had 
nothing to do with our visit here ; nor I believe did it 
once cross the mind of either my father or my mother. 

" They were anxiously looking out among the groups 
of turf-getters with which the top of the hill was dotted, 
for some one who was apparently the object of this un- 
usual visit. As we went along, the labourers stopped to 
speak and to gaze, for a country man in a holiday dress 
at that busy season, was to them a rare sight. A few 
enquiries directed my father to the object of his search : 
and we soon approached a group of labourers who seemed 
so intent upon their work, that we stood close to them 
before we were observed. They differed Httle from the 
little bands that were toiling around them, except that 
the eye at once detected that they were all of one family. 
There were four able-bodied men who wheeled the turf, 
when cut, in barrows, to the ground where they were 
spread out to dry, and three girls, somewhat younger, 
who laid them flat on the ground for that purpose. The 
turf-cutter was evidently the father of all the rest. He 



36 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

was a short and stout man, with ruddy cheeks, and hair 
as v/hite as snow. He was obviously very far advanced 
in years, but as active in his occupation as if he had 
been a much younger man. He had on a check shirt, 
and a coarse blue frock trimmed with black horn buttons, 
something like the dress of a charity boy at Chetham's 
Hospital, and not very unlike a parson's cassock. He t 
was so intent upon his work that he did not perceive our * 
approach till my father spoke to him, when the little old 
man turned suddenly round, with his spade uplifted in the 
air, as if he was impatient of being interrupted in his labour. 
To my surprise, my father immediately took off his hat, 
and my mother made a curtsey, actions so unusual that 
I began to feel an involuntary respect for him to whom 
such honours were paid. He returned the salute with a 
friendly bow and smile which showed that such atten- 
tions were not new to him : and my father taking me by 
the hand said, almost in the words of Scripture, ' Sir, 
this is our son of whom I spake unto, you.' The old 
man stepped forward, and laid his hand on my head, 
and said, with an expression of countenance which I 
shall never forget — ' God be gracious unto thee, my 
son !' Had the hand of a patriarch of old been then 
upon me, it could not have affected me more. It was 
' Wonderful Walker ;' did you ever hear, sir, of Won- 
derful Walker ?'' 



CHAPTER VIII. 



"You, Sir, know that in a Deighbouring vale 
A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of nature lie 
Retired from notice. . . . 

In this one man is shown a temperance proof 
Against all trials ; industry severe 
And constant as the motion of the day. . . . 
Preaching, administering, in every work 
Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 
Of worldly intercourse between man and man. 
And in his humble dwelling, he appears 
A labourer, with moral virtue girt. 
With spiritual graces, like a glory, crown'd." 

** Doubt can be none,'^ the Pastor said, **for whom 
This portraiture is sketch'd. The great, the good. 
The well-belov'd, the fortunate, the wise. 
These titles emperors and chiefs have borne. 
Honour assumed or given : and him, the Wonderful, 
Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart. 
Deservedly have styled." 

Wordsworth's Excursion. 



*' Hear of Wonderful Walker?" said I, "to be sure I 
have ! and have honoured and revered his memory as 
one of the bright lights of the Church, shining in a dark 
age, and in a remote corner of the world, where it might 
have been feared that light would hardly have extended. 
Why, my good friend, I once walked to the quiet and 
retired village of Seathwaite that I might make a pil- 
grimage to his grave ; and though I have gazed upon 
the tombs and monuments of many of the most renowned 
heroes and sages of days gone by, none of them filled my 
mind with such deep sensations of awe and reverence as 
the quiet and unpretending tomb of Robert Walker ! I 
yet see the inscription as freshly as if I had read it yester- 
day — the villagers point it out with pride and pleasure, 
as an honour to their rustic church -yard, and preserve it 
from all profanation, as a treasure above all price. How 



38 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

humble is the inscription engraved on that modest tomb- 
stone ! What a couple of saints are there recorded, re- 
posing in peace and union after a long life of pious use- 
fulness, and awaiting the sound of the archangel's trumpet 
with a faith as firm as their sleep is tranquil ! Thus 
runs the record : — 

" ' In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who 
died the 25th of June, 1802, in the 93rd year of his age, 
and 67th of his curacy at Seathwaite. 

" 'Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28 th of January, 
in the 92nd year of her age/ 

" Truly were they ' lovely in their lives, and in death 
not divided.' How I envy you, my friend, to have been 
taught by the honest voice, and to have gazed on the 
honest face of Robert Walker !" 

** Truly, sir, you are quite enthusiastic about my old 
pastor, and I suspect you have read the poet Words- 
worth's delightful sketch of his character, with the ma- 
terials for which he was supplied by some of his surviving 
descendants ; if not, I recommend you to lose no time in 
doing so. My recollections of him are of a humbler 
kind, but perhaps not less interesting; to me he has 
been more than a father. His divine words yet live in 
my memory — I wish I had always followed his good ad- 
vice, and good example ! 

" His habits, as you know, were quite upon a level with 
the plain and homely rustics of the village. He lived as 
they lived, and worked as they worked. But he lost no 
spiritual influence, or even worldly respect by this ; on 
the contrary, by excelling them all in those pursuits of 
which they could judge, he gained credit among them 
for being always right in matters wherein they were less 
informed. I believe the clergy, by their too frequent 
ignorance of, or contempt for, common things, often lose 
an influence among the uneducated, which all their know- 
ledge of divinity can never make amends for. Walker 
was the best shepherd on the mountains, and was not 
the less qualified thereby for being the spiritual shepherd 
of his people." 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 39 

** You remind me," said I, " of a good old parson of 
Buttermere, who was really a learned and sound divine, 
but was most esteemed by his flock as being the best 
wrestler in all the country side !" 

" That sounds ridiculous enough," said he, *' but what 
good thing is there which does not become ridiculous in 
its excess ? Good Mr. Walker, however, was of a dif- 
ferent stamp. He was at peace with himself and all the 
world. He ne'er had changed nor vdshed to change his 
place. Where he was bom, there he lived, and there he 
died. He baptized, married and buried, almost every 
individual of at least two generations in his parish ; and 
where he laid them in their last resting-place, there 
he lay down himself, waiting his final reward. I have 
myself always much respect for a dead body, know- 
ing that it shall Hve for ever ; and I always think that 
he who cares httle for the bodies of them that sleep in 
Jesus, is often Httle better than an infidel. It is not 
the soul only that is immortal, the body is immortal also ! 

" But, sir, to my tale. My father continued — ' Hear- 
ing that a confirmation is about to be held, we are anxious 
to put this our boy under the care of your Reverence, 
that he may be duly prepared. We thnak, from what 
his master, Mr. Bownnan, says of him, that he is a good 
scholar, and well-informed in matters of religion ; we 
know that he is a tolerably good boy at home,' (here my 
father spoke with a half- smile on his face, as if unwilling 
to allow so much in my favour in my presence ; and in- 
deed, though much delighted, for I had never heard him 
say so much good of me before, I fear the eff'ect was in 
some degree to feed my vanity :) ' generally speaking* 
my father continued, with an emphasis on the phrase, 
' generally speaking his conduct is very fair. But we 
know that you always wish to prepare the young of your 
own parish for confirmation ; and so we have brought 
him to you that you may give us your advice as to what 
he is to do to prepare himself, and you may depend upon 
it that we will see that it is done.' 

''* Thank you, my good friend,' said the Pastor, 



40 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

highly delighted, 'thank you! You have done what 
all parents ought, but not more than I expected from 
you. I remember well, when I prepared you, — now forty 
years ago, — when I prepared you for the same solemn rite, 
I remember I told you not to forget to bring up your 
children in the way they should go, and thankful to God 
am I, that the seed sown so long since has lived in your 
hearts, and has shot up at the proper time as fresh as if 
it had been sown last spring ! Truly the seeds of grace 
are as immortal as the seeds of nature. See you that 
violet ? ' said he, pointing to a little simple pansy that 
was bending its graceful flower close to the spot on 
which the old man stood, — -' look at it, and think, how 
came it there ? Last autumn, this spot was covered 
with bog- earth, which had probably rested on this bleak 
and barren moor ever since the deluge. It was disturbed 
last year by the spade of the turf-getter, and now, this 
beautiful little flower has sprung up in this place ! For 
ages and ages its seed must have remained embedded in 
this sour and barren bog; yet, once disturbed by the 
hand of man, it springs up fresh and lively, to show 
that God can keep alive what to the eye of man may 
seem to perish, and can deck with grace and beauty even 
the most unpromising spots of creation ! So be it with 
Thy WORD,' said he, looking devoutly upwards. Now, I 
had observed the pansy growing on the portions of heath 
which had been moved by the spade a thousand times, 
yet never till now did I think that such a moral could be 
drawn from so simple a fact. And, sir, I believe that 
there i^ no fact, in nature or in art, from which a devout 
and observant mind may not learn similar lessons of de- 
votion. I never see a violet now, that I do not think on 
Robert Walker, and the power of the grace of God.' 

'' The old man paused a little, and then continued : ' My 
boy,' said the Pastor, addressing himself to me, ' are you 
ready to learn T ' As ready as you to teach,' said I, firmly 
but respectfully. I have often thought since, that such a 
reply might, in the ears of some pastors, have sounded 
something like a reproach ; but in the ears of Robert 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 41 

Walker, whose * aptness to teach' was as well known 
as his other good qualities, it was a most agreeable 
answer. * Sharp and ready, I see,' said he, turning to 
my father with a smile ; ' but most of Bowman's lads 
are pretty well trained. I wish you to come to my church 
next Sunday morning, when I propose to commence a 
course of lectures to the candidates for confirmation ; and 
I trust your parents will accompany you. They must 
present you in the temple, as Joseph and Mary did their 
Holy Child. I shall expect you all to *' dine with me at 
noon," with the rest of the parish.' This must sound in 
your ears as a large invitation from a poor pastor (his 
income was not more than £20 a year) to a whole parish. 
But, sir, it is no exaggeration ; every Sunday did this 
good man keep open house to his flock, and all were 
welcome who chose to partake of his boiled beef or 
mutton, and a bason of broth. 

*' At this point in our conversation a young man joined 
our party, whom I had for some time observed stroUing 
about, and occasionally addressing some of the various 
parties engaged in cutting turf on the fell. He was good 
looking, and dressed in the prevailing fashion of the time, 
that is, very much as I am at present, for my outward 
man has stood still in its attire for the last forty years. 
It was evident that he was no native of the north, and 
might be one of those Lakers , who, in that early period, 
though not in such numbers as at present, visited the 
lakes during the summer season, to enjoy the beauties of 
their scenery, and imbibe health and strength from the 
pure breath of their mountain breezes. He evidently 
eyed our Reverend friend with much curiosity; and 
respectfully touching his hat, said with a smile, ' Your 
outward attire, father, has in my eyes a somewhat primi- 
tive appearance.' Mr. Walker, if he felt the sneer, did 
not seem to notice it, but replied with plain simplicity, 
' I flatter myself, sir, that my dress is such as at once 
becomes my character, and bespeaks my oflice. It is 
coarse in its texture, for the materials of it were spun by 
my own hand ; but its form is such as has been handed 



42 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

down from time immemorial as belonging to the priest's 
office, and I see no reason, sir, why the priest's vesture 
should not be as unchangeable as his creed/ 

" ' Unchangeable ! venerable sir, what is unchangeable ? 
Is not the human mind, in our days, gradually but irre- 
sistibly marching onwards, from the darkness of igno- 
rance to the broad daylight of liberty and knowledge ? 
Is not this an age of new light ?" '' It may be so," said 
the priest, " but if my creed be true, the last new light 
from heaven came in the days of our Saviour — any new 
light since then, must, I fear, have a different origin !' 

'* The stranger did not seem disposed to pursue the con- 
versation further, but, slightly touching his hat, took his 
leave. We also paid our parting respects to the pastor^ 
and commenced our journey home. The stranger joined 
us before we had advanced far on our return, and certainly 
we found him a most intelligent and agreeable com- 
panion. He had seen much of foreign countries, and 
mentioned many circumstances with regard to them and 
their customs, which made a deep impression on my 
youthful imagination. He accompanied us to the door 
of our house, which was opened by my sister; and^ 
much to my surprise, she received him with an expres- 
sion of countenance, and a conscious blush on her cheek, 
which showed that it was not the first time that they 
had met. My curiosity was excited, and I resolved, if 
possible, to find out the stranger's history and occupa- 
tion." 



CHAPTER IX. 



Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave 

Less scanty measure of those graceful rites 

And usages, whose due return invites 

A stir of mind too natural to deceive ; 

Giving the Memory help when she would weave 

A crown of hope ! I dread the boasted lights 

That all too often are out fiery blights, 

Killing the bud o'er v\'hich in vain we grieve. 

Wordsworth. 



^^ I am afraid sir," continued the old man, as we resmned 
cm- walk and our conversation, " that you will begin to 
think my tale of things gone by both tiresome and un- 
profitable. To me it is interesting, because, as I tell my 
story, my mind goes back to the days of my youth, and 
the early feelings, both of joy and sorrow, return to my 
heart as my narrative calls them up, almost as freshly as 
when the scenes were acting before my eyes. But that 
the task is unprofitable, I cannot help sometimes confess- 
ing to myself, however pleasing it may be to my feelings. 
Walker, and all that concerned him, are gone to the 
grave. The world has marched on with wonderful strides 
since his day ; his clumsy spinning wheel is now rendered 
useless by machinery ; and even in his own little vale, a 
chikVs hand can, in one short week, produce a greater 
quantity and a much finer quality of v/ell spun yarn than 
he, poor man, tvdsted together during the long and labo- 
rious years of his whole life ! Why, then, should one 
look to him, and not to that child, as a model ? I feel 
tiiat it would be absurd to take the latter rather than the 
former as an example, yet I confess I cannot assign the 
reason for it : and thus it is, that when I am told that 
the present age is in advance of the last, and ought ra- 
ther to be my guide than the v/ays of antiquity, I am 



44 THE OLD CHUBCH CLOCK. 

often driven into a difficulty, thougli never convinced; — 
wliat think you of tlie matter T' 

" Your difficulty/' said I, " seems to arise from con- 
founding progress in arts and sciences with progress in 
moral and mental powder. The one is as different from 
the other as possible, nor does the existence of the one 
at all imply the presence of the other. The child you 
have referred to as being able to spin so much better than 
Walker, — could it reason like Walker ? would it act 
and feel like him ? — By no means ; and so neither may 
an age, distinguished for mechanical progress, excel one of 
darkness with regard to such matters, and yet devoted to 
pursuits and studies which call forth the powers of the 
mind, and exercise the best qualities of the heart. Shak- 
spere and Milton might have made sorry cotton-spinners; 
no farmer now would plough, like Elisha, with twelve 
yoke of oxen before him, yet where is the farmer who 
would surpass the prophet in zeal, and eloquence, and 
devotion to his Master s service ? Never fear, then, my 
friend, that the example of good Mr. Walker can grow 
old and useless ; we can easily cut better peats than he 
did by the help of better tools, but when shall we surpass 
him in shrewd observation of the face of nature, in indus- 
try, in devotion to God, in kindness and good-will to 
man ! Hear what is said of him by a great-grandson, 
who may well be prouder of being a descendant of Robert 
Walker, than if he had come of the purest blood in Eu-- 
rope : — 

" ^ His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates were 
industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, neatness, quiet- 
ness, characterized the whole family. No railings, no idleness, 
no indulgence of passion were permitted. Every child, however 
young, had its appointed engagements ; every hand was busy. 
Knitting, spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, making 
shoes, were by the different children constantly performed. 
The father himself sitting amongst them and guiding their 
thoughts, was engaged in the same operations. ^ * ^ * * 

'^ ' He sat up late and rose early ; when the family were at 
rest, he retired to a little room which he had built on the roof 
of his house. He had slated it, and fitted it up with shelves for 
his books, his stock of cloth, wearing apparel, and his utensils. 
There many a cold winter's night, without fire, while the roof 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 45 

was glazed with ice, did he remain reading or -vyriting till the 
day dawned. He taught the children in the chapel, for there 
was no school house. Yet in that cold damp place he never had 
a fire. He used to send the children in parties either to his own 
fire at home, or make them run up the mountain's side. 

" ^ It may he fuii:her mentioned, that he was a passionate 
admirer of nature ; she was his mother, and he was a dutiful 
child. While engaged on the mountains, it was his greatest 
pleasure to view the rising sun ; and in tranquil evenings, as it 
slided behind the hills, he blessed its departure. He was skilled 
in fossils and plants ; a constant observer of the stars and 
winds. The atmosphere was his delight : he made many ex- 
periments on its nature and properties. In summer, he used to 
gather a multitude of flies and insects, and, by his entertaining 
descriptions, amuse and instruct his children. They shared all 
his daily employments, and derived many sentiments of love 
and benevolence from his observations on the works and pro- 
ductions of nature. Whether they were following him in the 
field or surrounding him in school, he took every opportunity 
of storing their minds with useful information. — Nor was the 
circle of his influence confined to Seathwaite. Many a distant 
mother has told her child of Mr. Walker, and begged him to 
be as good a man. * ^ -st ^ * 

" ^ Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of see- 
ing and hearing that venerable old man in his 90th year, and 
even then, the calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his sermon, 
sanctified and adorned by the wisdom of grey hairs, and the au- 
thority of virtue had such an effect upon my mind, that I never 
see a hoary-headed clergyman without thinking of Mr Walker. 

* -St -Jfr 4t -JS- ^ -?fr 

He allowed no dissenter or methodist to interfere in the in- 
struction of the souls committed to his care : and so successful 
were his exertions, that he had not one dissenter of any denomi- 
nation whatever in the whole parish. — Though he avoided all 
religious controversies, yet when age had silvered his head, and 
virtuous piety had secured to his appearance reverence and si- 
lent honour, no one, however determined in his hatred of apos- 
tolic descent, could have listened to his discourse on ecclesias- 
tical history and ancient times, vathout thinking that one of 
the beloved apostles had returned to mortality, and in that vale 
of peace had come to exemplify the beauty of holiness in the 
life and character of Mr. Walker. * ^ ^' 

"' Until the sickness of his Avife, a few months previous to 
her death, his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. 
But this misfortune gave him such a shock, that his constitu- 
tion gradually decayed. His senses, except sight, still preserved 
their powers. He never preached with steadiness after his 



46 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

wife's death. His voice faltered : he always looked at the seat 
she had used. He could not pass her tomb without tears. He 
seemed when alone sad and melancholy^ though still among his 
friends kind and good-humoured. He went to bed about twelve 
o'clock the night before his death. As his custom was, he 
went loitering and leaning upon his daughter's arm, to examine 
the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the open air. 
"How clear the moon shines to-night !" He said those words, 
sighed, and lay down : at six next morning he was found a 
corpse. Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a 
grateful blessing followed him to the grave.' 

" My good friend/' said I, when I had finished reading 
to him the above beautiful extract, " I beg pardon for 
interrupting your narrative, but 1 am sure you will for- 
give me on account of the subject, and because I think 
what I have just read contains an answer to your ques- 
tion, — Why should we imitate the ancients rather than 
the moderns ? When the moderns set us a better ex- 
ample than this, we will follow them w^ith pleasure : but 
they must excuse us if we wait till then. I would say, 
to those who are anxious to set one age against another, 
and especially to magnify our own at the expense of the 
past, (in the lines of a great and good man,) 

" ' Oh ! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may 
The help which slackening Piety requires; 
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray 
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.' " 

" They must take long strides," replied the old man 
with a smile, " who put theii' feet in the marks left by old 
Eobert Walker ! However, to my tale once more. 

" As I told you, I had for some time observed a change 
in the conduct and spirits of my poor sister Martha, and 
the looks exchanged between the good-looking stranger 
and herself led me to suspect, with the ready feeling of 
jealousy, that he might be, in some way or other, the 
cause of this great alteration. Yet I had never seen or 
heard of him before, as being either a resident or a visitor 
in the neighbourhood ; nor could I conjecture how or 
where they had ever met. I determined, however, to 
fathom the mystery, for my sister's welfare was as dear 
to me as mv owti, and I had at least as firm a reliance 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 47 

on her virtuous resolutions as I had of mine. Nothing, 
indeed, could make me for a moment suspect (and the 
event shows that it would have been criminal to suspect) 
that an improper thought or design had ever crossed her 
well-regulated mind. Obser^dng her, one fine evening, 
during the week that these events occurred, quietly leave 
the house after the labours of the day were concluded, I 
determined to track her footsteps, though at such a dis- 
tance as carefully to avoid her observation. What a path 
did she select for her evening's ramble ! Sir, you know 
the majestic shoulder of old Wraynos, out of which the 
river Duddon takes its rise, a little silver stream. — 
How it winds its way past the groves of Birker, under the 
gigantic heights of Walla-Barrow Crag, and through 
the delicious plain of Donnerdale, gathering up the 
little mountain rivulets as it hurries on towards the sea, 
till, at Seathwaite, it becomes a bold and brawHng 
stream, battling with the vast masses of fallen rock that 
encumber its bed, and sprinkling the bushes that stand 
gazing into its current vrith a perpetual dew. Down 
this romantic track did my sister haste with a step as 
light and as timid as a mountain deer, — and, sir, the 
race of the red deer of the mountain was not extinc^; in 
my day, but you often saw their antlered heads gazing 
down upon you from heights which the most experienced 
shepherd did not dare to cHmb. She did not, however, 
pursue the Duddon as far down as Seathwaite, but turn- 
ing up to her left, by the side of a Httle feeder to the 
stream, entered the circular plain of a small valley, which 
is one of the most retired and beautiful in the whole 
region of the lakes. Every thing in it, houses, trees, and 
even men, seem as old, and grey, and peaceful, as the 
hills which surround it ! Here my suspicions of the 
object of her journey were at once confirmed. At the 
moment she entered the little circular plain of smooth 
green -sward from below, the stranger whom we had 
encountered on the fell was seen to issue from the shrubs 
that clothed the upper termination of the valley; and 
they met in the centre with a punctuality which showed 



48 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK* 

— though my poor sister's step seemed to slacken a little 
as they approached — that the time and place of meeting 
were by no means accidental. As I gazed on his manly 
form and graceful air, I could not but hope that all 
this augured well for my sister's future happiness, though 
there was an impression on my mind, from whence ga- 
thered I could not explain, not altogether favourable to 
the stranger. Perhaps, thought I, it arises from that 
jealousy which is always felt towards those who are 
found to share in those affections which we wish, how- 
ever unreasonably, to keep solely to ourselves. But what 
right had I to expect that my sister's affections should 
all her life be confined to her own domestic fire-side } I 
watched them, therefore, with a mingled feeling, retire 
into one of the most secluded parts of the glen, and has- 
tened to ascend the rock under which they had placed 
themselves as if to catch the last rays of the sun as they 
threw a parting glance up the western opening of the dale. 
All besides was black with shadow, and every singing- 
bird in the valley was silent, except a solitary blackbird, 
who had taken his stand on the highest twig of a tower- 
ing birch that was still gilded with the light of the sun. 
He ^whistled a few fine farewell notes to the day, and then 
darted down into his thicket for the night. At that 
moment I heard my sister's well-known voice from below, 
soft and sweet, as if taking up the song where the black- 
bird had left off his melody. The air was one well-known 
in our valleys, but has not, I dare say, attracted the 
attention of those caterers for the mart of music who 
gather up our native melodies as men buy up our virgin 
honey, at a low rate, and dress them out for higher prices, 
and a more fashionable circle. The words were, I believe, 
her own ; for she possessed a remarkable taste for moun- 
tain ballads ; or they might perhaps have been prepared 
for her by the native poet, of whom I before spoke to you ; 
for they conveyed a sentiment which strangely harmo- 
nized with my own feehngs with regard to the stranger, 
and seemed to show that she, too, had her suspicions as 
to his character, and was probably almost as ignorant as 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 49 

myself of his history. Never did notes sound so sweetly 
on mine ear as at that moment did my poor sister s song ! 
The tune — the place — the feeling that the lines were 
dictated hy the true sentiments of the heart, all conspired 
to impress them on my memory, and to convince me that 
there was a power in music to reach the heart, which n(. 
other charm possesses, when the words, the air, and the 
feeling are in perfect harmony with each other. I havt- 
prepared for you a copy of the verses, hut I cannot convey 
to you that which is their gi'eatest charm to me— ^ the 
occasion on which they ^^'ere first sung. They have also 
been hannonized by a friend, who, like myself, has smelt 
the heather in his youth, and has infused into the instru- 
mental portion, some of the feeling and spirit which 
breathed in my poor sister's melody. You are heartily 
welcome to both. 

MARTHA'S SOXG. 

* O speed not to our bonny braes 
To cool dark Passion's beat ; 
Xor think eacb stream, tbat mldly strays. 
To every eye is sweet : 

The fairest hues yon mountain wears 

No sunshine can impart ; 
The brightest gleams, the purest airs. 

Flow from a pious heart I 

Clear be thy breast as summer breeze, 

And tender be thy feeling, 
'Twill give fresh verdure to the trees, 

'Neath winter's snow congealing ! 

Then speed not to our bonny braes 

To cool dark Passion's heat ; 
The glittering stream, that \\'ildly strays, 

Is sweet — but to the sweet I' 
H 



50 THE (>LI> CHITRCH CLOCK. 

" How shall I paint to you the feelings which crowded 
upon my mind as I wended my way homewards on that 
memorable evening! The darkening scene, as I crossed 
the rugged crest of Walna, was magnificent; and I have 
always felt that the heart and imagination expand with 
the prospect. How the littleness of human possessions 
strikes the mind, when we look over the successive 
boundaries of a hundred lordships, and feel for the mo- 
ment permitted to possess, or at least to enjoy them, as 
much as their legal owners ! How do human passions 
die away under the balmy breath of heaven; and the 
soul feel its original relationship to its eternal Author. 
Yet anxiety for my sisters welfare pressed upon my 
mind at that moment with double force, because I alone 
was privy to her secret, and as yet only knew it in a way 
which prevented me from employing my knowledge for 
her good. Yet why should I interfere ? was she not 
capable of regulating her own conduct, and was there 
anything in what I had discovered inconsistent with the 
prospect of a long course of happiness before her ? With 
these thoughts I reached home, and was soon after fol- 
lowed by my sister, w^hose unusual absence had been 
quite unobserved by any other part of the family, nor did 
I give any token that it had been noticed by myself. 



CHAPTER X. 



The sun is bright, the fields are gay 
With people in their best array, 
Through the vale retired and lowly 
Trooping to the summons holy. 
And up among the woodlands see 
What sparklings of blithe company ! 
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms 

That down the steep hills force their way, 
Like cattle through the budded brooms ; 

Path or no path, what care they ? 

White Doe of Rylstone. 



" You recollect that in our mter\iew witli Robert Walker 
on the top of Walna, we were directed by him to as- 
semble at his church on the following Sunday, the child- 
ren to commence their preparation for Confirmation, and 
the parents to present their offspring and themselves to 
derive comfort and instruction from the occasion. Never 
did a brighter sun shine on the world than that which 
rose on that memorable morning ! Why, sir, does the 
sun shine brighter on a Sunday than on any other day in 
the week ?" 

" I cannot,"' said I, smiling, " give a reason for that 
which does not exist ; but 1 can see a reason why good 
men should sometimes think so, from their mistaking the 
warmth and light of gratitude springing up in their own 
hearts on that holy day, for the rays of the sun above 
them !'' 

"It may be so,** said the old man, ''-but I shall live and die 
in the belief that there was something warmer and brighter 
in the sun on that blessed morning, than I ever felt either 
before or since. The early work of the day, (and in a 
farm like ours there is always some labour which must 
necessarily be attended to even on the Sunday,) was finished 



52 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

long before the usual hour, and we were all dressed in 
our very best and on our way for Seathwaite Chapel, 
soon after nine o'clock. The early rays of the sun lighted 
up Coniston Old Man,'^*" so that you might count every 
stone in his body. As we descended the slope of the moun- 
tain side for the vale of the Duddon, you might see a 
thousand white threads of water pouring down from every 
height that surrounded the valley, (for there had been a 
heavy shower of rain in the night,) and all rushing, with 
headlong impetuosity, into the brawling stream below. 
Then you could trace that stream, winding its beautiful 
way, now in sunshine, and now in shadow, till it gradually 
widened into a broad estuary, and lost itself in the bay of 
MoRECAMBE,the dark mass of Peel Castle standing calmly 
amidst the waves, as if to mark the boundary between 
the broad river and the ocean. This sight of itself pre- 
pared the mind for the religious impressions which were 
to follow ; even a child like me seeing in the picture be- 
fore him an emblem of the hasty bustle of time and the 
quiet repose of eternity ; and I could not resist putting 
up a silent prayer to God, that the light of His Grace 
might continue to shine upon the days of my short and 
feverish life as the sun in heaven was then glittering upon 
the mountain rills, now so bright and busy, and in a few 
hours doomed to become silent and still, as though they 
had never been. But another sight, still more impressive, 
broke on our view as we turned the crest of the little 
hill from which we first looked down on the chapel to 
which we were tending. Nothing, I believe, puzzles stran- 
gers so much, on visiting our Lake country, as to find out 
where all the people live. The houses of the district are 
placed in such odd nooks and cornerjs, so buried under 
little knolls or spreading trees, and so like the old grey 
rocks about them in colour and shape, that an inexperi- 
enced traveller might roam through half that mountainous 
region, and fancy that its only inhabitants were sheep, rooks, 

^' An "Old Man" is a heap of stones, of which many are 
erected on the highest points of the loftiest mountains in the 
North of England. 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 53 

and wanderers like himself. In tlie mining districts, too, 
one half of the inhabitants live under gromid during the 
week, and it is only on a Sunday, when they come up to 
worship God with their brethren, that they see the light 
of the blessed day. Hence it is on Sundays only, that 
any man, native or stranger, can get a real sight of the 
whole population. Now, at the moment I speak of, just 
as we got a first view of the whole valley round Mr. 
Walker s chapel, the whole population of the district burst 
on our sight at once. They were seen pouring over every 
height, and hurrying dowai the breast of every hill, of all 
ages, and in dresses of almost every variety of hue. The 
matrons, in their scarlet cloaks, which shone brightly among 
the green heather, were walking carefully along in groups 
of two or three, talking over, no doubt, the events of the 
week since they last met, the occasion that now more 
especially brought them together, and, it must be confessed, 
perhaps now and then mixing with more serious topics a 
little of the passing scandal of the country-side. The old 
grey-coated farmers, with stout sticks in their hands, said 
a few words on the subject of prices at the last Broughton 
sheep and wool fair ; while the young men and maidens, 
laughing a little more loudly than the day justified, and 
walking a little nearer each other than their elders always 
quite approved, seemed to select, by way of preference, 
the most rugged and slippery paths they could find. In 
front of all rushed on the children and dogs, the latter, 
even at church, the better behaved if not the more intelli- 
gent j)arty of the two. I would rather take my chance in 
the next world with some of the good dogs that I knew 
in Seathwaite, than some of the beasts in human shape 
that I have met with since I left it ! Well, sir, all these 
were seen pouring at once do^^n the liill sides, as light- 
hearted and cheerful as the larks over their heads. There 
could be no mistake as to the point to which, straggling as 
they seemed to be in their course, they were all finally 
aiming ; for the little chapel-bell of Seathwaite was sending 
forth its sharp sound, not much louder than a mountain 
cuckoo, but still distinctly enough to be heard throughout 



54 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

the whole region in that still and silent air. What a pic- 
ture had we then before us of the unity of the Church 
of Christ ! Though the paths of these men, in the world, 
might be different, yet they all met togethel in harmony 
in the House of God — they all aimed at one point — they 
all hoped to be saved by the same faith. Here there was 
indeed ' one house appointed for all living' — to pray in du- 
ring life, to rest in after death. They all took Seathwaite 
chapel on their road to heaven ! The bell which called 
them together to prayer was not much larger than a sheep 
bell, but it was obeyed by all the flock with a readiness 
which shewed how anxious they all were to be included 
within the fold of the Good Shepherd of their souls. 
Doubtless He was present in spirit. His minister on earth, 
as far as that little flock was concerned, was there in 
person; ready, as he always was, to see his flock, and ad- 
minister to their spiritual comforts. There he stood, at 
the door of his humble parsonage, in his stuff gown and 
cassock, and his silver locks streaming in the wind, greet- 
ing every one as he passed by his door on the way to the 
chapel, and listening kindly to any little intelligence, either 
of joy or of sorrow, which the events of the last week 
might have brought forth. What a crowd there was as- 
sembled within and around that humble chapel, on that 
Sunday morning ! There was not sitting or rather kneel- 
ing room for one half of the congregation. For though 
probably the number of candidates for Confirmation did 
not much exceed a dozen, yet Mr. Walkers expressed 
wish, (and his wish was law,) had brought together all the 
parents, god-fathers and god-mothers, and elder brothers 
and sisters of every candidate, that they might be, on that 
occasion, reminded of their own Christian duties. These, 
together with a number of strangers attracted by the un- 
usual circumstances, swelled the congregation to an amount 
far exceeding what the little chapel could contain ; and 
so they stood about the door, or sat upon the walls and 
grave-stones of the church-yard, which, to a mounitain- 
race on a fine autumn morning, formed quite as agreeable 
a temple of worship as the close-packed and somewhat 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 55 

mouldy space within. We, as being somewhat visitors and 
I a candidate, were civilly accommodated with seats by 
one to whom we were well known, and so heard and saw 
every thing that passed. There was no distinction of seats, 
or rather yorw^s, in that little house of prayer. The forms 
all looked to the east, being entered from one small aisle 
which ran up from the west door to the altar. The people 
sat in families, but without distinction as to rank, all going 
to the place where their fathers had worshipped before, 
from time immemorial. The only difference was, that as 
each by degrees grew old and deaf, they advanced a step 
nearer the altar, that they might be able better to hear 
and see the clergyman. Thus the more sacred part of the 
building was surrounded by those who from age and spirit- 
ual experience deserved to be exalted in the Church of 
Christ — they were, as it were, the Elders round about 
the throne — they were a connecting link between minis- 
ter and people — they were looked up to by those who 
sat behind, as their parents and examples; and no doubt 
it was an ambitious wish in the hearts of many of the 
younger, that as tket/ advanced in years they might be 
thought worthy to fill that honoured circle, and receive 
the respect which they were then paying to their elders. 
Surely, sir, this is a more becoming way of encircling 
the altar of our God, than by crowding its steps with idle 
and ill-mannered boys, as is too often the case in town 
churches, putting those at the head who ought to be but 
at the entrance of the Church of Christ, and filling our 
minds, as we think of that sacred portion of the House 
of God, with the image of a school-master with his ferula 
instead of a priest in his holy vestments !" 

"I am nearly of your mind," said I, smiling at the quaint- 
ness of his notion, " but you must recollect that necessity 
has no law.'* 

" True," said he, " most true. Well, sir, there we were, 
waiting in anxious expectation for the stopping of the 
little tinkling bell, and the arrival of tlie clergyman, for no 
one thought of sitting down till he appeared. At length 
he advanced, with a grave face, and placid countenance. 



56 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

bowing slightly to all as he passed, but with his eyes fixed 
right before him till he reached the little altar, over the 
rails of which hung the surplice. This was reverently 
placed on his shoulders by a man almost as old and grey- 
headed as himself, and evidently dressed in some of the 
minister s old raiment. The effect of this robing in the 
sight of the congregation was very impressive. You saw 
as it were with your eyes the putting off of the man and 
the putting on of the minister. The world was lost for a 
time, and shrouded by the clean white robe of the mes- 
senger of God. I have often thought that vestries, in and 
out of which the minister of a large town church pops as 
in a play, destroy the effect which was certainly produced 
on my mind by this robing of Kobert Walker in the sight 
of the people. The service began with a psalm, selected 
and given out by Walker himself. His voice was rather 
thin from age, but clear and distinct, for he had lost none of 
his teeth, and his reading of the lines was like the sound 
of an instrument of music. He read each verse separately, 
and separately they were sung. The lines which he 
chose were the following from the Old Version of the 
Psalms, which he always used not only as being more 
near the original and more devotional in their spirit than 
the new, but as consisting mainly of words of one sylla- 
ble, and expressly adapted to the plain-song of congrega- 
tional singing. When shall I forget the musical cadences 
with which he gave out the following simple lines from 
the 34th psalm ? 

^ Come neare to me my children deare. 
And to my words give eare : 
I shall ye teach the perfect way 
How ye the Lord shall feare. 

' Who is the man that would live long, 
And lead a blessed life ? 
See thou refraine thy tongue and lips 
From all deceit and strife. 

' Turn back thy face from doing ill. 
And do the godly deed : 
Inquire for peace and quietnesse, 
And follow it with speed. 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. oj 

* For why ? the eyes of God above 
Upon the just are bent : 
His eares likewise do heare the plaint 
Of the poor innocent.' 

^'I wish, sir, you had heard the way in which the 
giving out of the first verse of this psalm was responded 
to by the congregation ! There was no praising God by 
deputy — no leaving this delightful part of the service to 
a few women in pink bonnets, and men in well-curled 
locks, stuck up in a gallery in front of a conceited organist, 
mincing God's praise in softly warbled tones, and ready 
to sing to-morrow with just the same zeal and devotion in 
a Roman Catholic Chapel or an Italian Concert Hall, if 
they are equally well paid for their professional services. 
No, sir ! every man, woman, and child sung for them- 
selves, lustily, and with a right good Avill. They sung 
the air in a minor key, as is always the case among the 
inhabitants of mountain districts, perhaps because they 
learn to pitch their notes to the echoes of their native 
valleys ; but it had from that circumstance a more solemn 
and devotional effect. It was taken up by those without 
the doors with the same zeal as by those within, for all 
knew the air as familiarly as their own names. Here 
was a strict compliance vrith David's precept, ' Young 
men and maidens, old men and children, praise ye the 
name of the Lord.' The mighty sound rushed down the 
vale of Ulpha like the bursting of a mountain cataract ; 
nor, for aught I can tell, was it checked in its onward 
course till it had scaled the heights of the surrounding 
mountains, and died away at last, in a gentle whisper, on 
the lonely summit of Black Comb ! Died away^ did I 
say ? Forgive me, sir, the lowly thought ! Far higher 
than the cliffs of Helvellyn did that holy psalm ascend ; 
nor stayed it in its upward flight till it approached, as a 
memorial of sweet incense, the throne of God — there to 
be heard again when earthly sound shall be no more 1" 

There was a single tear on the old man's withered 
cheek as he said this, and a twitching about the rigid 
muscles of his mouth, which showed that his iron frame 

I 



58 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

could still vibrate to the gentle recollections of his youth. 
He paused in his narrative ; and there was a solemn 
silence between us of some minutes' duration. At length 
he resumed — 

" The saying of the Church Service followed with the 
same calm solemnity and devotion with which it began. 
It was clear that the object of the priest was to forget 
himself, and lead the worshippers to forget him, in the 
high service in which both were engaged ; and in this he 
fully succeeded. It was not till the worship prescribed 
by the Church was ended, and the last Amen had died on 
the ear, that a sensation of curiosity seemed to run 
through the assembly, and those without began to crowd 
nearer the door, as though something unusual was about 
to take place, and they were anxious to catch words less 
familiar to their ears than the well-knovtoi language of 
the Prayer Book. There was little preparation necessary 
for the sermon. The preacher did not leave his place to 
change his sacred vestments for a black gown, as is now 
the general fashion. His place of prayer was also his 
place of preaching. I should explain that what we call 
the reading-desk was placed in the north-east comer of 
the little chapel, having two ledges for his books, one 
looking to the south, and the other (which also formed 
the door) to the west. On the former rested the Prayer 
Book, and on the latter the Bible ; so that when he 
prayed, he naturally turned to the altar, — when he read 
the Scriptures, towards the people. When he began to 
preach, therefore, he simply turned to the people as when 
he had read the lessons, resting his sermon on the Bible 
— ^no bad foundation, you will say," added the old man 
with a smile, " for a scriptural discourse ! His text was 
a very short and simple one — ^but had he sought the 
whole Bible through, he could not have found one better 
adapted to my state of mind than the one he chose — my 
disposition being at that time, as I before observed, to 
take a somewhat gloomy and severe view of the Gospel ; 
it was ' God is love.' AH my dark fears vanished at the 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK; 59 

sound ; and I waited not to hear the reasons to be con- 
vinced that the essence of the Gospel is indeed 'glad 
tidings' to mankind. There was an unwonted appearance 
of excitement about the preacher as he gave forth his 
text, and turned over the leaves of the manuscript which 
lay before him, looking first at it, and then at the crowd 
of upturned and expecting faces before him with an ex- 
pression which I did not at first comprehend. He paused 
before he commenced his sermon, as if he could hardly 
read his own hand-writing, and yet nothing could be 
plainer or more distinct than his penmanship, even to the 
end of his days. At last he seemed to have made up his 
mind. He closed his sermon with a force which seemed 
to shew that he had come to a final determination, and 
deliberately put it into the pocket of his cassock; he 
then cleared his voice, paused for an instant, and com- 
menced as follows. You will not expect me to remem- 
ber every word of the discourse ; indeed, perhaps you 
will be surprised that I should remember it at all ; but the 
substance of it, and often the very words and looks of the 
preacher still cling to my memory, with a firmness of 
which nothing can deprive them but the coming grave ! " 



CHAPTER XI. 



Even sucli a man (inheriting the zeal 
And from the sanctity of elder times 
Not deviating, — a priest, the like of whom. 
If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 
Spread true religion and its genuine fruits) 
Before me stood that day. 

The Excursion. 



" ' My brethren,' said the priest, resting his hand on the 
]3ible, and looking round upon the anxious audience with 
an expression which showed some degree of agitation of 
mind, mixed with his habitual calmness and self-possesion, 
— 'My dear brethren, I am about to do what is quite 
unusual, and, I fear, wrong in me; — I am about to address 
you in language which I have not first carefully considered, 
and, word for word, committed to paper. Though I have 
preached the blessed Gospel of our Lord to you and your 
fathers, from this place, for the long period of fifty years, 
I have never ventured to do this before. I have had too 
much fear both for myself and you — too much anxiety 
that not a word should drop from me which was not 
agreeable to the language and spirit of the Gospel, to 
trust myself to unarranged thoughts, and unconsidered 
words. But fifty years have given confidence to my mind, 
that nothing which is not of God can slip from me in this 
house, even in the warmth and heat of a moment like this ; 
and thoughts arise now in my mind which seem fitted for 
the occasion, and yet which had not occurred to me in the 
silent meditation of my closet. And surely I have expe- 
rienced too long the full enjoyment of that holy truth 
that " God is love," to shrink from speaking of it, (and es- 
pecially before you, my children,) without shame, and 
without fear ! I call you my children ; for many as are the 



THE OLD CHUKCH CLOCK. 6 

grey heads that I now see before me, there is hardly one 
who has been born again into the blessed kingdom of 
our Lord without the ministration of these hands, unwor- 
thy as indeed they are to be made the instruments of so 
di\dne a thing ! There is one, indeed, now present,' — 
here his eye naturally turned to the seat almost close be- 
side him, in which sat the yenerable partner of his joys 
and cares, (sorrows^ I believe, in the worldly sense, he 
was too good a man to have any,) in her little black silk 
quaker-like bonnet, and neat white cap ; retaining on her 
cheeks much of the bloom and some of the beauty which 
had made her, between sixty and seventy years ago, the 
admiration of the parish : — ' There is orie^ indeed,' he re- 
peated ; his voice faltered, and it was clear that he would 
have some difficulty in proceeding with his discom^se : and 
here it w^as beautiful to observe what happened. The old 
lady, seeing hov/ matters stood, looked up to him from 
imder her bonnet ^Yith a quiet smile, conveying at once 
an expression of kind encouragement and gentle rebuke, 
which is quite indescribable. The effect was immediate. 
A slight flush of shame crossed the old man s brow, and 
he at once resumed his wonted composure. There was 
something in that smile which had reminded him of the 
days of their youth — when she was the buxom maiden 
and he the gallant lover — and he doubtless felt some 
shame that he should not show himself at least as firm and 
as youthful as his dame ; and so his face naturally took up 
an expression in quiet harmony with hers, and he became 
at once himself again. Sir, it was beautiful ! I would 
not have missed obser\dng it for the world. Doubtless, 
these were mere human feelings intruding themselves into 
the house of God, but I cannot believe they were sinful. 
It was like a gleam of earthly sunshine streaming through 
the painted A\indows of the chancel of a cathedral, 
glancing upon, and not polluting, the holy pavement of the 
sanctuary !" — The old man paused as if pleased ^vith his 
own thoughts, and then proceeded with his recollections of 
the sermon. 

^' ' You,' said the preacher, ' have been my scholars, and 



62 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

sometimes, I confess, my teachers, for many a year ; for 
while you have learned from me the truths of the Gospel, I 
have often drawn from you — your patience, your cheer- 
fulness, your submission to the will of God — a lesson as 
to the right way of putting the Gospel into practice. 
Much, too, have I learned from your sins, your negligences, 
and ignorances. But all combines, — strength and weak- 
ness, life and death, the works of God and the Word of 
God, — to teach us all the great, the essential doctrine of 
the text, " God is love !" See how He has shown it in our 
creation and our redemption, in the world around us, and 
in the world within us — the kingdom of earth, and the king- 
dom of heaven ! How like^ too, are His bounties and 
loving-kindnesses in both these kingdoms ! It is indeed 
^^the same God, that worketh all in all." Look around 
you, as I have often before told you to do, on human life, 
and especially on your own life, and the blessings which 
each of you possess. God is with you in spiritual and 
temporal things, always turning upon you the same face 
of love. He has given you an earthly world in which you 
are to live here below. He gave you breath to begin life, 
and strength to continue it. He gives you food in health, 
medicine in sickness, parents and friends to guard and 
instruct you in youth, companions in middle life, and 
children to be a comfort in old age. He surrounds you 
with beauty to cheer your hearts on every side ; sunshine 
and shadow, the fruitful plains and the everlasting hills, 
the fertilizing streams, and the bright and silent stars. 
God, in short, shows Himself to you in love and beauty^ 
through every stage of your mortal life ; and so it is with 
your spiritual life, — that life which He has given you in 
His dear Son. Love rules in grace as well as in nature. 
Love brought down the Saviour to die for you when 
you were dead — all dead — in trespasses and sins. Love 
sent down the Holy Spirit to earth, by Whom ye were 
born again into the kingdom of Christ, as ye were born 
into this world by the breath of the same Spirit when 
ye were but insensible dust. And your spiritual life is 
surrounded with love and kindness like your natural life, 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 63 

from its beginning on earth to its consummation in hea- 
ven. God's Bible, like His world, is full of love and 
beauty. It tells you to whom you are to listen, namely, 
His ministers; through what you are to seek grace, 
namely, His sacraments ; through Whom alone you are to 
be saved, namely, His Son.* 

" He then proceeded to show more especially how this 
love was shown in the institution of the rite of Confirma- 
tion, by which careful training of the youth of Christ's 
Church in faith and practice was secured, and all ages 
taught how they must act together in furthering the com- 
mon good, the older being bound to teach the young, and 
the young to listen to the old ; while both learned to feel 
their submission ta the rule of the Church, in having to 
submit to the Bishop, as its head, the test of their mutual 
obedience to her laws. ' But,' he added, ' I will not now 
dwell more on the rite of Confirmation, as the older have 
already had their instruction in it, and that of the younger 
will soon follow. I wish to say a word to you all on an- 
other matter, which I confess weighs heavily on my mind, 
and no occasion may again occiu* on which I can do it so 
properly as at present. You are surrounded mth spiritual 
enemies on every side, and it is my particular duty to warn 
you of your danger. God be thanked, the foe has not yet 
scaled the walls of this parish, but he is loudly battering 
at its ramparts ! Look at all the various kinds of dissent 
from the Church's unity, which now stalk abroad with 
shameless front ! Now all dissent is 5m, less or more. If 
it dififers not from the truth, it is the more unpardonable for 
its schism — if it does differ, so far as it differs it is the 
more sinful. Look at popery, which is dissent in the 
mask of unity — error the more dangerous for boasting it- 
self to be the truth. Look, again, at infidelity — the 
blasphemies of Tom Paine ; beware, my children, of this 
sin, for I hear it has come nigh you, even to your doors.' 
(Here a sensation of wondering horror ran through the 
assembled crowd.) ' Do you ask me for a safeguard 
against these snares ? I answer, meddle not with them ! 
He that toucheth -pitch will be defiled. To be tempted of 






64 ^HE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

the devil is trial enough for poor mortals to endure, hut 
to tempt the devil himself, is of all follies the most unpar- 
donable ! It is not my duty, for it is impossible for me, 
to answer all the forms of error ; but it is my duty to warn 
you against them all ; and I do so by giving you one sim- 
ple safeguard, which will apply to them all alike : it is 
this — take my word for it^ that your Church is true. — 
Somebody s word you must take, for you are too unlearned 
to judge of these deep matters for yourselves, and why not 
7nine ? Have I any interest, have I any wish to deceive | 
you ? Does not my salvation rest upon my securing your j 
own ? Have I not given my nights and my days to the 
study of the truth? Has not the Bishop, my spiritual 
head, commissioned me to preach it to you ? Have I any 
thing in this world that I can desire in comparison with i 
the salvation of your souls ? Do not my hoary locks, and I 
shrinking frame, proclaim that here I have no continuing 
city, but must soon give an account of my stewardship to 
Him that sent me? Has not the Bible been my com- 
panion, and the wisest and best of all ages its interpreters 
for me, for nearly a century ? If these things cannot be 
spoken against, take my word for it, till you have that of 
one whom you have more reasons for believing, that if you 
take the Bible as your law, and the Prayer Book as your 
practical rule of life, living up to both with a good con- 
science, then, my life for yours — my eternal life for yours 
— you will at last find the path I now point out to you, — 
the path that leads to heaven !* 

" The venerable preacher gave utterance to these words 
with a passionate earnestness which went to the hearts of 
all present, and very few who heard them will ever forget 
either their sound or their meaning. He then proceeded 
more calmly to press on his hearers their several duties to 
God and to each other, and dismissed the vast assembly 
with his blessing, given with all the dignity of a patriarch. 
I need not relate to you how crowded was his mid-day 
meal, — how attentively listened to his evening sermon. 
Suffice it to say, that we were instructed in every point 
of the solemn vow which we were about to take, on our 




^ 
A 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. S5 

own behalf, before the Bishop, in such a manner as might be 
expected from Eobert Walker. I must, however, men- 
tion two events more, connected with this httle history of 
our Confirmation, the one very lidiculous, the other ahiiost 
subhme ; because they have each their proper moral at- 
tached to them. Among the other candidates for Con- 
firmation was our old fiiend Tom Hebblethwaite, whom 
I have long since forgiven for the sound beating he gave 
me at HaT^'kshead, but T^'hom I never ccm forgive for cutting 
off the old cock's tail ! Tom was stupid and sullen as 
usual, but at the same time, thanks to old Bowman's birch, 
had acquired information enough about his catechism to 
prevent Mr. Walker from absolutely refusing him his tic- 
ket. Accordingly, he was one of the party who started 
off together from Yewdale to Ulyerston on the morning 
on which the confirmation was to be held in the chm'ch of 
that to\vTi, by the Lord« Bishop of Chester. We were a 
sober and steady young party, attended by our parents, 
and one or two god-fathers and god-mothers who kne^^* 
their duty; and the mirth, which generally attends such 
meetings of the youth of both sexes, was sobered doT^n 
into quiet and decorous conversation by the seriousness of 
the occasion wliich had brought us together. All except 
Tom, who, generally dull and stupid enough, seemed ex- 
cited into a kmd of perverse and ungainly liveliness, which 
increased into boisterous folly with every rebuke from 
those older than himself. At length we arrived at Penny- 
Bridge, just below Mr. Machell s house, when the stream 
was then crossed, (I know not how it is now,) not by a 
bridge, as one might expect from its name, but what are 
there called ' hipping-stones,' large blocks of rock placed 
at intervals, so that the passenger had to skip from one to 
another in order to cross the water. Tom challenged his 
companions to go over on one leg, — a feat which many 
there could have performed, had they not one and all felt 
themselves restrained from such a childish frolic by the 
solemnity of the occasion. Xovi' it is a strange trait in 
himian nature that the very feelings which held back the 
really brave, seemed to give a momentary courage to the 

K 



66 THE OLD CHURCPI CLOCK. 

coward; and Tom undertook to perform to-day wliat no- 
body would give him credit for ever thinking of on any other 
day in the year. But the fate of all such rash adventurers 
— and which every one hoped rather than expected — on 
this occasion befell Tom Hebblethwaite. Just when he 
came to the largest stone, and the deepest hole in the river, 
Tom's courage and foot gave way together, and down he 
soused over head and ears into the water, nothing being 
seen of him, for a moment, but his hat, which, being the 
lightest part about him, (it was a new one for the occa- 
sion,) refused to sink with the rest of his body, and soon 
commenced a voyage towards Peel Castle and the Pile 
of FouDREY, — a voyage which nobody present seemed in- 
clined to interrupt. Tom himself, however, was kindly 
fished up out of an element which seemed to have been of 
service neither to his body nor to his mind ; for, without 
staying to thank his deliverers, he immediately commenced 
a rapid retreat homewards, and, I dare say, remains un- 
confirmed, (except in his sullenness and obstinate temper,) 
to the present hour ! It was some time before we could 
recover our compos are, which had been ruffled by this 
ludicrous event ; but the sight of the assembly around the 
church and church-yard of Ulverston effectually sobered 
the thoughts of even the most volatile of our party ; for 
there can be no sight more solemn than that of a Con - 
firmation in a fine open country, and in a church situated 
like that of Ulverston, surrounded by scattered and tow- 
ering hills, v/ith the broad ocean in the distance. There 
were the rural shepherds at the head of their flocks, hast- 
ening to present their young lambs to the Lord, that they 
might receive His blessing from the hands of His chief 
minister on earth. Our own beloved pastor was already 
at his post, standing waiting for us at the church-door in 
his well-known gown and cassock, and ready to head us 
up to the rails of the altar. Way was made for him 
by his younger brethren of the clergy, as he advanced 
steadily up the aisle, followed by his children ; and what 
was our surprise and delight to see the Bishop himself, in 
his white robes, advance two or three steps to meet him, 



I 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 6/ 

and shake him most aifectionately by the hand. There 
was a smile of approbation on the faces of the surrounding 
clergy as they witnessed this scene, w^hich showed that no 
feeling of jealousy was excited in their minds by this 
kindness on the part of the Bishop, but that they all looked 
upon it in its true light — as a just reward of pious and 
unpretending merit. How proud w^e all were at that mo- 
ment of belonging to the flock of Egbert Walker ! We 
each felt as if we had a personal share in his distinction, and 
many of us resolved then, I doubt not, to do nothing Avhich 
should bring disgrace upon a teacher so honoured among 
his brethren as ours ! This, sir, I have learned since to 
believe, is a wrong feeling ; we ought to follow^ the right 
path from higher motives than a feeling of pride, either in 
ourselves or others. But sm^ely our human passions may 
sometimes justly be employed for good ends. What is it 
but taking one of the Devil's strongest and most wiry 
snares, and twisting it into a three-fold cord to bind us 
faster to the altar T' 



CHAPTER XII. 



Come on sir ; here's the place : — stand still. — How fearful 

And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low ! 

The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air 

Show scarce so gross as beetles : Half way down 

Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade ! 

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : 

The fishermen, that walk upon the beach. 

Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark, 

Diminish'd to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 

Almost too small for sight : The murmuring surge 

That on th' unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, 

Cannot be heard so high : — I'll look no more ; 

Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 

Topple down headlong. 

King Lear, 



" You must prepare yourself," continued the old man, 
" to be somewhat surprised with what I am going to re- 
late to you, if you have not (as I have) lived long enough 
in the world not to he much surprised at any thing. 
Things are so mixed up in this world, and very trifling, or 
even absurd events so often lead to very serious conse- 
quences, that I can quite believe the stories one hears of 
the spilling of a cup of tea creating a war between two 
nations, or the boring of a rat-hole causing the inundation 
of Holland. 

" One very fine morning, at this period of my narrative, 
Gawen Braithwaite, a stout young man of rather more 
than my own age, the son of a neighbouring statesman, 
and myself, sallied forth on an excursion of a character 
not uncommon among the young men of that country in 
my early days, and probably still prevailing, — which com- 
bined the three great excitements to youth for any similar 
undertaking, viz. pleasure, danger, and sometimes profit. 
This was, the gathering ruddle in the Screes of Wastdale. 
This operation will require some explanation to make it 



IHE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 69 

intelligible to you. Ruddle is a stone strongly mixed 
with iron, which, by wetting and rubbing, produces a 
deep red paint which hardly any exposure to the weather 
can wash away, especially when stained upon an oily 
substance like wool. Now this ruddle the shepherds of 
the mountains use to mark their sheep with, that it may 
be known to whom they belong. As the sheep range 
over a wide and unenclosed extent of moor and fell, they 
often ramble far from home, and though each shepherd 
well knows every one of his own sheep by face, yet 
strangers could not know to whom a stray animal be- 
longed, unless it bore some mark to point out its owner. 
Hence the occupier of every sheep-farm has his own 
peculiar mark, which has been used on that farm time 
out of mind, by which his sheep are known all over the 
country-side; and at sheep-shearings, which are always 
times of great festivity and rejoicing, the shepherds as- 
semble from all parts of the country, and choose out their 
o^'VTi stray sheep from each flock as it is shorn, appealing 
to their well-known marks as proofs of ownership. These 
marks, as I said, are made by the mineral called ruddle^ 
which, being very scarce, has a considerable value in the 
market, fetching as much as at least sixpence a pound. 
Now sixpences are not very abundant in the pockets of 
country lads; and they are very glad to secure them, 
even though it be but by one at a time, at the expense of 
wasting many hours, which they value little, and at much 
risk of their necks, which they value less. It happens 
that this ruddle is principally to be found in the most 
dangerous place in all the lake country — a place which 
you must have seen, for it is visited by all tourists who 
wish to explore by far the finest part of all that beautiful 
district — the Screes of Wast- water. These Screes are 
a long and lofty ridge of almost perpendicular rocks, run- 
ning from ScAW-FELL towards the sea, along the whole 
southern side of the lake of Wastdale, and are of so 
brittle and crumbling a nature, that almost the smallest 
pebble, set rolling from above, will gather a host of them as 
it goes, till a whole army of little stones rush pell-mell to 



70 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

the bottom of the rock and pkmge headlong into the dark 
lake below, at least fifty fathoms deep ! It is on the 
face and half way down the side of this shivery rock that 
the little veins of ruddle are to be found, and you may 
guess the steady step and firm nerve which are required 
to descend the surface of the steep and loose declivity, 
and avoid any disturbance of that rolling mass, which, 
once commencing its movements, would to a certainty 
hurl the bold adventurer to the bottom. Many lives have 
been lost in this perilous pursuit. However, Gawen 
Braithwaite and I were not deterred by the danger, but 
rather impelled by it to encounter a risk which we had 
often before tried and escaped. Up Langdale, then, we 
sallied; and crossing Stye-Head, made our way to the 
left under the peaks of Scaw-fell Pikes, through the 
stormy gap of Mickle-door, and descended the face of 
the Screes with that boldness of heart and step, which is 
the best pledge of safety. We were on this day more 
than usually successful in the object of our search; and 
before the sun had descended between the double peaks 
of the Isle of Man, had filled our bags with the treasure 
which we so highly prized, and sat down on the top of 
the Screes to eat our first meal since we left home, and 
watch at the same time the last rays of the sun tingeing 
the sea with gold, and the top of Great Gavel with a 
deep purple — his base being already lost in shadow. In 
the gaiety of our hearts we ended our repast by smearing 
our faces with the ruddle: and, having added a few dark 
lines to the portrait by the aid of some bastard coal which 
is there found, we were quite prepared to startle to our 
hearts' content any rustic maiden that might have the 
misfortune to encounter us on our way home — a feat 
not very uncommon in a country where amusements are 
not so easily found as in towns like this. The lengthen- 
ing shadows of the evening soon warned us of the ap- 
proach of night; and we commenced our return with 
light hearts and heavy sacks of ruddle^ keeping the high 
ground and the slopes of the hill-sides rather than de- 
scending into the valleys below, both because the ground 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 71 

was there more solid to the step, and hecause — the truth 
must he confessed — we thought we w^ere less likely to 
meet with ghosts on the open plain, than in the dark 
lurking-places and shado^^'}" recesses of the glens, which 
have heen supposed, from time immemorial, their favour- 
ite habitations ! Yet, strange as it may appear, this 
very avoidance of ghostly haunts led us not only into their 
chosen dwelling-places, but converted us into ghosts our- 
selves; as you shall hear. Gav/en Braithwaite was some- 
what in advance of me as we crossed the bold point of 
the crag w^hich runs out between the vale of Langdale 
and the dale that leads towards the foot of Hardknot, 
when he suddenly disappeared among some close bushes 
of hazel, which here fringe the rock from the river below^ 
almost to the croA^m of the hill. Conceiving that he had 
stumbled under his weight among the hidden stones (for 
it was now almost dark even on the hill tops) I hastened 
forward to his relief, when, to my great surprise, I found 
that he had disappeared altogether from ^dew. I called 
aloud, and, receiving no answer, I became dreadfully 
alarmed, thinking that he^ who, I soon recollected, had 
no right, to poor Gawen, had flown ofl^ wdth him bodily ! 
At last I heard his voice from below feebly calling on me 
to help him, and then found that he had fallen into a deep 
and unsuspected cavern, and was unable to get out with- 
out my assistance. I descended carefully to the place 
where he was lying, and found him not at all hurt; but 
he trembled exceedingly, and putting his hand to his 
mouth as a signal for my silence, he pointed to an object 
below, which put me at once into as great a fright as him- 
self. We could both see distinctly a faint glimmering of 
hght, though far beneath us ; and as we held our breaths 
from very terror, sometimes fancied we could hear the 
sound of human voices in the very bowels of the hills. 
At last our doubts w^ere changed into certainty; and gather- 
ing courage by the assurance that the sounds which ^\i^ 
heard were not inhuman^ our curiosity began to get the 
better of our fears, and we quietly worked our way down- 
wards among the rocks and closely- ^yoven bushes, till the 



72 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

light grew brighter, and the sounds fell more distinctly on 
our ears. At last a sight burst upon us which astonished 
us both not a little. Stepping quietly down u.pon a jutting 
projection of rock, we obtained the full view of a large 
cavern, evidently the old working of a slate-mine which 
had been long deserted, and the entrance to which (at the 
opposite end from where we stood) had been almost for- 
gotten even by the natives. The hills thereabouts are, in 
fact, full of such old workings. There, round a large fire, 
which answered the purpose both of light and heat, we 
saw arranged a large circle of men, some standing, some 
leaning against the rocks, and some sitting round the fire, 
while one stood in the middle addressing them with great 
earnestness, and much and very graceful action. I im- 
mediately recognized the orator as one whom I had seen 
before, and much surprised and grieved was I to see him 
under such circumstances. Have you any idea, sir, who 
he was?'* 

" Not in the least," said I. 

" It was the handsome stranger, the lover and loved of 
my poor sister Martha ! The whole secret was now out; 
the mystery was now at an end. This man, whose ap- 
pearance and occupations among our quiet mountains no 
one could account for, was, in fact, a champion of the 
French Revolution, and a spreader of the pestilent doc- 
trines of Tom Paine ! Whether he was employed by 
others, or whether he came impelled only by his own 
perverted zeal in this evil cause, was never known; but 
his object was to spread the principles of Infidelity and 
Revolution (and when were these principles ever sepa- 
rated?) among the miners of Cumberland, and, through 
them, among the peaceful and pious inhabitants of the 
north ! Can you, sir, conceive a design more fiendish 
than this ?— well worthy the exploits of his first ' father 
in the garden of Eden ! There, however, in that old and 
forgotten mine, he had secretly assembled the workmen and 
others together, and was in the very midst of his exhorta- 
tion when Gawen Braithwaite and I became so unexpect- 
edly a portion of his auditory. As we recovered our 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 73 

self-possession, and found that we were completely 
screened from view by the shadows which filled the 
whole of the upper end of the cave, we could gradually 
trace out some faces that we knew; and amongst the rest 
one or two whose presence in such company caused us 
no little surprise. How little, sir, do we know the real 
opinions, even of our next neighbours ! There we saw 
William Tyson, — no relation of old Tommy Tyson, king of 
Wastdale-Head — for he is as honest a king as ever 
reigned, and, at the same time, as good a subject to the 
Queen as ever lived." 

"Honest king Tommy," said I, "is dead.". 

" Is he indeed ?' said the old man, in a lower tone than 
he had been speaking in just before ; " I grieve to hear 
it; but all men, even kings, must die; and I trust he has 
left a successor to his humble throne among his native 
hills, as w^orthy to reign as himself and his ancestors. 
William Tyson was a neighbour of our ow^n, and owner 
of a very neat homestead and large sheep-farm in the 
vale of Tilberthwaite. One could see no possible reason 
why one so well to do in the world should feel any dis- 
satisfaction either with Church or State. But, sir, what 
has reason to do with follies like these ? William was a 
man ' wise in his own conceit,' and I do not think Solomon 
was far wrong when he said of such a one, that ' there is 
more hope of a fool than of him.' Well, sir, Gawen and 
I lent our ears most attentively to catch the substance of 
the handsome stranger's address, and soon found that he 
was speaking of the equality of civil rights, to which, he 
said, all men were born by nature. ' All men,' cried he, 
'come into the world in precisely the same condition.' 
' I do not see how that can well be,' said a decrepid- 
looking vn*etch sitting close to the speaker, ' when I came 
into the world vrith a withered arm and leg, which have 
hardly ever grown since, and Jack Strong there was born 
with the limbs of a giant, and the strength of a buffalo !' 
' I speak not of natural, but of civil equality,' said the 
stranger, somewhat puzzled by the objection ; ' I mean 
that one man has as much right to property as another.' 

L 



74 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

'Aye, aye/ said William Tyson, mucli pleased with this 
view of the subject, ' I have long thought myself quite as 
much entitled to Coniston Hall as Sir Daniel le Fleming 
himself, and should much like to have the guiding of it 
for the rest of my days/ 

" ' I wus ye may get it,' said Peter Hoggarth, one of 
William's own shepherds, who was standing unexpectedly 
near his master ; ' / shall be satisfied with your bonny 
holmes of Grey Goosthwaite, which I think I can farm 
quite as w^ell as my master !' 

"William Tyson was evidently by no means pleased 
with this intrusion of his own shepherd's; for it was clear 
that he had no manner of intention of resigning Grey 
Goosthwaite to his herdsman when he took possession 
himself of the broad acres of Coniston Hall. So true is 
it, that all men would level up to those above them, none 
down to those below them ! 

" The speaker now turned to the religious part of his 
subject, on which he expressed himself with great fluency 
and plausibiHty. He stated that much, which was mis- 
taken for religion, was in reality nothing more than early 
prejudice and weak superstition. He instanced this, by 
ridiculing the strange belief in ghosts and spirits which 
was once so prevalent in these valleys, but was now fast 
disappearing before the light of advancing knowledge and 
science. ' The miner,' said he, ' used to hear the myste- 
rious knocking, and the supernatural signals of the rock- 
demon, where he now only listens to the echoes of the 
strokes of his own pick-axe.' 

" ' True,' said a brawny miner, leaning upon his spade, 
' / used to be afraid of evil spirits in these dark holes of 
ours, and was driven to say my prayers in a morning be- 
fore I came to work, to keep them away; but I am grown 
wiser now ; and, for my part, I will never believe that 
there is a devil at all, until I see him.' 

"'You may see him now, then!' exclaimed a voice 
from the lower end of the cave. ' There are two of 
them r cried another; upon which the whole assembly 
rose in the utmost terror, and rushed out of the cave, 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 7^ 

tumbling one over another into tlie darkness without, and 
some not recovering their feet till they had rolled to the 
very bottom of the hill. The stranger was the last to 
lose his presence of mind; but even he, it seems, had 
some latent suspicions that there might be such a being as 
the devil, for he soon rushed after his audience towards 
the mouth of the cave, and was lost in the gloom. This 
absurd termination of the meeting is easily accounted for. 
The stone on which Gawen Braithwaite was standing- 
had been gradually sinking under his weight, and at last 
gave way altogether, rolling half way down the upper 
part of the cave towards where the audience were as- 
sembled. Gawen, of course, gave way with it, and in 
his fall dragged me after him. The sight of two human 
heinous making their entrance into the cave with such a 
clatter in a place where no entrance was knov^ai to exist, 
and the fiendish-looking figures which we had made our- 
selves by besmearing our faces vdth the ruddle and coal, 
were too much for the nerves of the valorous audience, 
who suspected, from what they heard and saw, that the 
devil was really looking after his own; and so they dis- 
appeared like magic, relieving, us from th^ terror which 
we felt at making so untimely an entrance into the as- 
sembly, as we had reason to expect a by no means civil 
reception had we been discovered. Having quite for- 
gotten the disguised state of our faces, it was not till we 
approached the light of their fire that we found out the 
cause of their sudden terror ; and you can w^ell imagine 
how we enjoyed the success of our very involuntary ex- 
ploit. Yet there was indeed much to grieve my own 
heart in what I had learned, for the first time, that night. 
My poor sister Martha was, it now appeared, engaged, 
probably heart and hand, certainly in her young aflfections, 
to one who was an enemy to God and man, a disbeliever 
of the truth of the Gospel, a disturber of the peace of his 
country ! What course lay before me I knew not. I 
would not, for my poor sister's sake, mention the sad 
truth to my father and mother ; for I well knew that their 
indignation would know no bounds, and that they would 



76 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

probably at once expel her from her home, thus driving 
her directly into the arms of him, who would certainly be 
her ruin, both in body and soul. I shrunk from mention- 
ing the subject to my sister herself, for I recollected that 
I was younger than she, and felt that I had no authority 
to control her will, if, after knowing the character of the 
stranger, she should still resolve to cling faithfully to his 
fortunes. At last, after a sleepless night, and much in- 
ward prayer for light to guide me, I determined to take 
tlie course which I am sure you will say was a wise one 
— I resolved to lay the whole case before my best friend 
and natural adviser, Eobert Walker." 



CHAPTEE XIII. 



-—An unlessoned Girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd; 
Happy in this she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; and happier than this. 
She is not bred so dull but sne can learn ; 
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours, to be directed. 

Shakspere. 



"Egbert Walker was less surprised at my history 
(which it took me a long time to tell) than I had ex- 
pected him to be. In fact he knew almost every thing 
that was going on in his parish, and people often won- 
dered how he came to know so intimately matters 
concerning themselves, which they had supposed were 
closely locked up in their own breasts alone. When I 
told him of the pestilent doctrines which the stranger 
was spreading among the miners and others of his flock, 
he immediately reminded me that he had darkly hinted 
at this in the sermon which he preached to us before our 
confirmation ; the substance of which I have just related 
to you. I thought he would have split his sides with 
laughing when I told him of the way in which Gawen 
Braithwaite and I had dispersed the assembly by our 
sudden and unintentional intrusion into their councils; 
and tapping me playfully on the cheek, while his eyes 
ran over with tears of mirth, he said, ' Take care, my 
good lad, as long as you live, that you never play the 
devil in any other character than you did last night ! 
He is a kittle customer to deal with, and generally has 
the best of it in the end with those who meddle too 
much with his concerns. Resist the devil,' said he 
solemnly, ' resist the devil and he will flee from you — 
aye,' he added, smiling once more at the recollection, 



78 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 



' quite as fast as silly Willie Tyson and his man Peter !' 

" ' And so tliey ran, did they V continued he, for he 
could not get the amusing notion out of his head, ' ver^ 
fast, eh?' 

" ' Like rats out of a hurning corn-stack,' said I. 

" ' I do wish I had heen with you,' said the old man ; 
' I would have set up a halloo that would have rung in 
Willie's ears till — till — till he gets Coniston Hall !' 
and he laughed once more till his sides shook again. 

'' His mood, however, was soon changed into soher 
sadness, when I proceeded to explain to him how the 
handsome stranger had won the heart of my poor sister 
Martha, and how deeply and unchangeably I feared her 
affections were engaged. Martha was a great favourite 
with Mr. Walker, as indeed she was with every one who 
knew her ; and he saw at once the difficulty of her situa- 
tion. '• Poor thing !' said he, with a deep expression of 
melancholy foreboding on his countenance, ' what is to 
become of her ! I know her well : she has not given her 
heart hastily, nor hastily will she withdraw it. What a 
fiend he must be to steal the affections of one so good, 
so innocent, and so confiding ! Bad men are always sel- 
fish ; and with all his professions of zeal for the liberty 
and instruction of mankind, he could not forget his own 
interests, or restrain his passions. 'Tis always thus ; 
they who deal with evil on a large scale, are almost sure 
to indulge in a little private vice on their own account ! 
Yet why condemn him hastily? The man that could 
win the heart of our Martha must have in him some- 
thing that is plausible at least, if not estimable, She 
would not give away her diamonds for Irton pearls.* 
Who knows but the believing maiden may be even now 
converting the unbelieving lover? I will speak to her 
on the subject, and that before I am a day older. I 
think, my young friend, she will not hesitate to confess 
to me her inmost thoughts ?' 

* Pearls are or used to be found in the shell-fish in the river Irt, oa 
the west coast of Cumberland. It is much to be feared that there are 
very few now left. 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 79 

** ' I will answer for that,' said I ; • but how is the in- 
terview to be brought about ? I shrink from entering 
upon the subject ^^ith her myself, and should be the un- 
willing bearer of any message w^hich might lead her to 
suspect that I had in any way played a false part to- 
w'ards her/ 

" ' Leave that to me/ said the old man, ' I see no diffi- 
culty in the matter/ He turned to his little WTiting- 
table, which drew^ out from beneath his book shelves, 
(for we were in his little room on the top of the house 
which he had fitted up for his private study,) and wrote 
as follows : 

'^ ' My dear Martha, 

I wish to see you tomorrow on particular busi- 
ness, and at eleven o'clock. Bring your brother with you 
as a companion by the way. Your affectionate Pastor, 

Robert Walker.' 

'^ This note removed every difficulty at once, as far as 
I w^as concerned. I was thus not supposed to have 
any knowledge whatever of the occasion of this sum- 
mons, but was merely to be an attendant • on my sister s 
steps. Now^, sir, it is very remarkable, and I have never 
since been able to account for it, that though I have 
generally well remembered (as you have heard) the 
state of the sky and weather, and the little incidents 
of the journey, on every other occasion that I have 
thought of sufficient importance to relate to you, (for 
such things always make a deep impression on the mind 
of a mountaineer,) yet, on this occasion — one of the last 
that I shall ever forget — the wdiole landscape is to me a 
perfect blank, and I have not the slightest recollection of 
any single event that occurred from the moment when 
poor ]\Iartha and I left om* father s door, to that when we 
stood before the parsonage of Seathwaite, and were 
welcomed by Eobert Walker into his dark and spacious 
dining-room ! That welcome, and the soft yet some- 
w^hat melancholy smile on his countenance, I shall 7iever 
forget. As we stood together, looking out fi'om the long 
low window on the rich landscape before us, we saw^ the 



80 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

handsome stranger cross the little foot-bridge that led 
from the other side of the Duddon to the Parsonage, and 
make his way directly for the door of the house. 
Martha, who was the first to observe him, turned very 
pale, as if on the point of fainting, and said in an anxious 
low voice to Mr. Walker, ' I cannot meet }dm here !' 
and made for the door as if to escape. The old man laid 
his hand gently on her arm and said, ' You are too late 
to avoid him, but go behind the squab if you wish not to 
be seen ; you will be safe enough there.' 

^' This squab was a long oaken seat, or settle, with a 
high wooden back, running from the fire-place half way 
down the middle of the room. I dare say such seats 
(and very uncomfortable they are) are still to be found 
in most of the old farm-houses in the North. 

" The stranger entered as Martha disappeared ; and I 
was very much struck with the ease and grace of his 
manner. He wore the look and air of one who was on 
the best possible terms with himself and all the world. 
Much as I felt disposed to dislike him, I could not help 
admiring both his person and address. There was an 
awkwardness and nervous action about Mr. Walker, 
which I now observed for the first time, that showed to 
great disadvantage when compared with the strangers 
ease and self-possession. 

"After courteously placing a seat for his visitor, Mr. 
Walker took his accustomed place in his arm-chair in the 
corner, and then his wonted calmness and dignity at once 
returned. The stranger was the first to break the silence. 

" ' Well, reverend sir,' said he, with a bland smile on 
his face, ^ I am here at your own request. How you 
found out my place of abode I am at some loss to dis- 
cover, and what your particular business may be with 
me, I can still less conjecture. I shall doubtless learn 
both at your convenience.' 

" There was nothing in the words of this address to 
give the slightest ofi'ence; yet there was something in 
the tone in which it was uttered, to excite uncomfortable 
feelings in my mind, and I saw Mr. Walker slightly 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 81 

colour, as if he felt somewhat nettled at the manner at 
least of the address. Yet the feeling, if such existed, 
soon passed off; and he resumed his usual calm yet 
somewhat firm expression of countenance as he said : 

" ' The second part of your difficulty, sir, you have a 
right to have solved, as it shall soon be ; with regard to 
the first it seems less to the purpose. I ought in the 
first place to say, that it is simply in my public character 
as the authorized preacher of the Gospel in this parish, 
that I have taken what would otherwise seem a great 
liberty with a perfect stranger, to request an interview 
with him, without first assigning grounds for the request. 
That you have so readily complied with it, I beg to offer 
you my thanks.' 

" I was much struck with the somewhat stately form 
of language wdiich Mr. Walker in this case assumed — 
so different from his ordinary discourse with his plain 
country pa^rishioners. He took up the tone of the scholar 
and the gentleman with more ease than I had thought it 
possible for one whose course of life had been so long- 
removed from the society of his equals. 

" ' Sir,' said the stranger, ibefore you proceed further, 
allow me to protest against your assumption, that in your 
public character you have a right to exercise over me any 
superintendence or control. I belong not to your liock, 
I subscribe not to your creed. Even the tyrannical 
Church of Rome professes to fetter the minds and torture 
the limbs of those only who have at some period pro- 
fessed allegiance to her doctrines ; and these are not days 
when the Church of England can safely arrogate to herself 
a power (however anxiously she may long to do so) which 
would rouse the dormant spirit even of an Italian slave.' 

" ' Pardon me,' said Mr. Walker, with the utmost 
calmness ; ' over you I neither claim nor wish to exercise 
any authority whatever. But there are those over whose 
religious condition the laws both of God and man have 
given me power and authority, and upon them I ani 
bound to exercise it, both for their sakes and my own. 
The Church has devised a certain system which she 



82 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

declares to be founded on Scripture, and propounds it to all 
her people as their rule of faith and life. I, having given 
my full assent and consent to that system, have accepted 
the office, under her authority, of spreading and propaga- 
ting that system among those committed by her (under 
the Bishop) to my care. I am not, then, here to reason 
out, either with you or my people, a nev^ system, hut 
simply to enforce one long established by the Church at 
large. I am bound by my oath "to banish and drive 
avray all erroneous and strange doctrines," and this by 
every means by v^hich the lavrs of God and man may aid 
me. While then you are at full liberty, as far as I am 
concerned, to entertain any notions you may please as to 
religion or politics; you are not^ at the same time, 
equally at liberty to spread them abroad among my flock^ 
if I can by fair means prevent it — and prevent it, by 
God's blessing, I will !' 

" The stranger smiled scornfully at the old man^s energy 
of expression, and said ; ' My venerable old friend, at- 
tempt not what you cannot accomplish. The day is gone 
by, when recluses like you, ignorant of the world and of 
the strides which it has of late been making towards full 
liberty of thought and action, could keep men's minds in 
darkness by the vain terrors of an expiring superstition. 
Be content to lament in your chimney corner over the 
obstinacy of this perverse generation, and leave the course 
of events to march on towards that high destination 
which assuredly you cannot hinder.* 

" ' You much mistake the matter,* replied Mr. Walker, 
' if you suppose that we, in these remote regions of the 
globe, are necessarily ignorant of the on-goings of the 
world beyond our barren mountains. Our books are our 
telescopes, which bring distant things distinctly before 
our observation ; and history tells me the staleness and 
the vanishing nature of those theories which to you seem 
all novelty and permanence. Nor think that I threaten 
without power to execute my threats. I shall not wait 
to cure the evil which you may occasion ; my duty is to 
prevent ; and that I can do by a power of the extent of 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 83 

wliich YOU are probably little aware. I thank God it is 
a moral power, but not, on that account, the more easy 
to be resisted. Kecoliect how long I have presided over 
these few sheep in the wilderness, and then consider 
whether, by this time, they must not well know the voice 
of their master ! Why, sir, you could not hide your 
head in a cottage between Eskdale Moor and Muncaster 
Fell, but I, did I wdsh it, could know where it rested, 
and almost what it meditated, by next morning ! Take, 
then, my advice, and leave this country for ever. I 
threaten you ^\'ith no loss of life or limb ; but if you are 
found within these bounds after this solemn warning, 
your movements \\ill be watched and dogged by those 
who have it in their power most effectually to put a stop 
to your designs. The mountain top mil be no safe- 
guard — the gloomy mine no security. Nay, the very 
fiends themselves will rise in rebellion at my bidding, 
and fling dismay into the hearts of those who rashly deny 
their existence ! ' 

" The stranger cast on the old man a look of the ut- 
most surprise, as he gave utterance to these last words. 
The scene in the mine, no doubt, rushed upon his recol- 
lection; and he looked hard at Mr. Walker, as if he 
wished to trace in his countenance some signs of his be- 
ing privy to the ghostly visitation of the night before. 
But nothing could be seen there but the proofs of a mind 
determined to carry through its high resolves ; and it was 
with somevrhat of a subdued tone that the stranger at 
last resumed the conversation. 

" ' I doubt not,' said he, ' that you have it in your 
power fully to execute your threats. I have heard and 
seen enough already to believe it. But why, sir — par- 
don me, I cannot account for it — why should yoit show 
so much zeal in a cause which seems so little deserving 
of your support, — a Church, which has left merit like 
yours to pine in neglect amid these ban-en mountains ; 
and a State, which binds you to keep the peace among 
these half-civilized barbarians, and does not reward your 
pains ^vith even the barren smile of its countenance ? 

" The old man turned upon the stranger a look in 



84 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

which a lurking smile was mixed up with much sternness' 
of expression, and said : ' Well may I be anxious to remove 
such a tempter as you from my unsuspecting flock, when 
you thus artfully assail what you doubtless deem the 
weak side of eyen the shepherd himself ! My lot indeed 
may seem to you to be somewhat hard ; but I answer in 
one word — a stronger than which the king himself can- 
not use — I AM HAPPY. I am where my Master placed 
me, and that of itself is enough for a good soldier of 
Jesus Christ. But, sir, even in a worldly point of view 

• I am happy, nay,* to be envied by those who look with 
narrow views (pardon me) like yourself, at what makes 
happiness here below. I suppose you think wealth, 
power, and fame to be the three things most to be de- 
sired to constitute a happy man ; and in which of these 
am I so deficient, as to give me ground for repining at 
the lot which has been assigned me ? With regard to 
wealth — though I certainly can boast of none of the 
superfluities of life, yet by our own industry and occupa- 
tion (without which even abundance cannot give enjoy- 
ment) I and my wife have acquired more of the good 
things of this life, than either of us, from the condition of 
our birth, had a reasonable right to look for ; and who 
can justly complain, whose lot in life is better than his 
fathers? As to power — I think you have already had 
abundant proof that I possess it, in my own sphere of 
action, in no ordinary degree. What absolute monarch, 
or what turbulent populace (and they are much the same) 
reigns so uncontrolled as I over the hearts and wills 
(but, I am proud to add, through the affections) of the 
people of Seathwaite ? Power is mine, such as Rome 
only dreamt of; the greater because it is never exercised. 
And as for fame — the desire of which is perhaps the 
least blameable of our earthly passions, because it springs 
out of our innate hope of immortality — who has it more, 
in possession and in prospect, than the old feeble indi- 
vidual before you ? These mountains are visited by 
tourists attracted by the beauty and splendour of our 
rural scenes ; but the humble residence of Robert Walker 
is not passed by as the least interesting among them 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 85 

The Lord of Muncaster Castle doifs that hat to his 
country pastor, which he would not take off before his 
monarch on the throne.'"* My children — and a fine 
healthy, though somewhat numerous race they are — will 
hand down my name to the next generation, I trust, as 
untarnished as they received it ; and my children s chil- 
dren, unless they are strangely forgetful of the pious 
lessons which their fathers have taught them, may hold 
it their highest honour to be descended from Robert 
Walker ; and find that name of itself a passport and a 
recommendation even in what is called a cold and heart- 
less world. We have lived here, sir, my life -companion 
and I, so long, as almost to form part of the landscape. 
Good Bishop Jeremy Taylor tells a story of an old couple 
ill Ireland, who had resided so long in the same village 
that if they had given themselves out to be Adam and 
Eve, there was no one alive to contradict them. We are 
almost in the same condition. While, then, these rocks 
shall frown and that stream shall flow, my name, humble 
as it may be, is assured of its earthly immortality. The 
future Poet, whom the spirit of the Church and these 
divine scenes shall inspire with strains that shall blend 
the music of earth with the higher notes of heaven, will 
not omit my name from his pictures, when he paints my 
beloved Duddon in colours which shall last for ever; 
and who knows but some more lowly historian, smit with 
the love of my most humble but sincere service to my 
Master, shall hold up my name as a watchword to the 
fire-side of the quiet cottager ; and teach the farmer at 
his plough, and the weaver at his loom, to call to mind 
my history; recommending to their sons patience, and 
perseverence, and piety, by the example (oh, how weak, 
feeble, and failing !) of Robert Walker !' 

" The old man had risen from his chair, and paced the 
room with rapid strides as he gave utterance to the last 
sentences of this prophetic vision of his future history; 
and it was some time before his eye, which v/as sparkling 

* There is a tradition that this is one of the families which claim to 
wear a hat in the presence of Royalty. 



86 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

with pious gratitude to God for all His blessings, caught 
that of the stranger, as it was fixed on him with the ex- 
pression of a cold and quiet sneer. His countenance im- 
mediately changed, and he coloured slightly at having 
thus exposed himself, in his open-heartedness, to the 
charge of a vanity, which was surely, in this case, of a 
most pardonable nature. ' Sir,' said he, ' I have become 
a fool in glorying — ^you have compelled me. I have 
shown you that, on your own selfish principles, I have 
indeed much to be thankful for. But we must bring this 
matter to a close. I look for a promise from you, which 
you must see it would be useless to withhold, that you 
wdll vex this quiet district no longer with your presence.' 

" ' I go,' said he, ' father ; but I go not alone ! You, 
and this simple youth shall know that there is at least 
one heart here which sympathizes with my feelings, and 
will not shrink from sharing my fortunes. Love, father, 
is stronger than' — 

" ' I RENOUNCE HIM !' exclaimed poor Martha, rushing 
forward from behind the screen under v/hich she had 
been sheltered during this remarkable conversation, and 
standing erect in the middle of the room with her eye 
boldly fixed on the face of the wondering stranger — ' I 
renounce him, now and for ever ! Oh Frederick !' 

" I shall never forget her expression at that moment. 
' Father,' she continued, ' I love him' — 

" ' Loved him, you would say, my child.' 

" ' Nay, father, love him still dearly, and will for ever 
love him !' 

" ' Then fly with me,' said the stranger, ' to a land less 
inhospitable than this' — 

" ' No, Frederick ! that cannot, shall not be. At my 
baptism I was married to Another, and with one who 
has stained his baptismal robes will I never be united !* 

" ' This is some plot.' 

" ' No, Frederick, believe it not. All is honourable, ex- 
cept — oh, Frederick, why did you not tell me the truth? 
Begone ; if you can, be happy ; but never see me more 1' 

" And they parted, and they never did see each other 
more !" I 



CHAPTEE XIV. 



She was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament. . . . 
I saw her, upon nearer view, 
A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-liberty 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel-light. 

Wordsworth. 



" The gloom, wliicli had for some time been lowering 
darkly round our house, now burst over our heads with 
the fury of a thunder-storm. You must often have ob- 
served, sir, that as all the little ailments of a man s body, 
which singly are insignificant enough, gradually combine 
together, and produce death; so the misfortunes of life, 
long kept at a distance, seem at last to come upon an in- 
dividual or a family vdth one united assault, and press it 
with irresistible force to the very ground . So it was 
with us. My father, habitually silent and leserved, be- 
gan to talk more, especially to strangers, and to show a 
greater liveliness of manner than we had ever observed 
in him before. He spoke about the value of his land, 
and the produce of his crops, in a way to make me think 
that I had a very comfortable prospect of inheritance be- 
fore me, and I considered myself already as one of the 
established statesmen of the valley. Alas ! how puzzling 
is poor human nature ! At the very time when my 
father seemed most to rejoice in his possessions, he had 
just come to the con\dction that he could no longer retain 
them. He had never really felt their value till they were 
about to pass away from him and his race for ever ! His 



88 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

fatlier had been a somewhat expensive man m his habits, 
and had mortgaged his little estate to the father of Tom 
Hebblethwaite, in the hope, as times were then very 
good, of quickly redeeming it. But worse times soon 
succeeded ; and my poor father and mother, with all their 
care and industry, vv ere not able even to pay the interest 
of the sum borrovv^ed, so that the debt gradually increased 
in amount, and the unavoidable issue was clearly fore- 
seen. This disheartening new^s my father took a quiet 
opportunity of communicating to me, my poor mother 
standing by, and the silent tears rolling down her cheeks 
— not for herself, but for her children. 

" ' My dear lad,' said he, ' you must /end for yourself 
I have engaged that you shall become apprentice to an 
engraver in Manchester, who is a distant relation of your 
mothers, and, I am told, in a very thriving condition. 
Your mother and I have given you learning, and we 
hope, good principles ; w^e had wished to have given you 
more, but God's will be done.' 

" A change now came over the whole course of my 
thoughts. It was like telling me that I was to pass my 
days in another world, so little notion had I of anything 
that was going on beyond the boundaries of my native 
mountains ; and I speculated, and wondered, till my mind 
became confused and perplexed, and I was unable to at- 
tend to even the commonest concerns of life. I will hasten 
over this distressing period, for it is too painful to dwell 
on, even at this distance of time. I believe that age 
magnifies the anxieties that are far off, as much as it 
deadens the pain of those that are near. The recollection 
to me now, is more grievous than was the reality at the 
time. Robert Walker took leave of me with much sound 
advice, but with a cheerfulness that removed much of my 
horror — -for that was what I felt — at leaving, probably 
for ever, my native hills. 

" ' My good lad,' said he, ' you are only about to do 
what thousands have done before you — leave these barren 
mountains for a scene of usefulness to which you arc 
evidently called by your heavenly Father. Many of my 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 89 

flock have gone before you in the same path, and most of 
them, I thank God, have been highly successful in their 
labours. Some of the highest and richest merchants in 
Manchester drew their first breath in these humble valleys, 
and w^ere taught at my village school. Having here been 
taught the lessons of frugality, industry, and attention to 
religious duties, they were thus trained for the after-toils 
of life, and have become an honour to their country and 
their Church. But as for you, I would rather see you 
good than rich. The one, with God's grace, you can be; 
the other may depend on a thousand accidents. I have 
prepared a little present for you, which I trust you will 
always cherish as proof of my good will. The Bible I 
know you have, and its fitting companion and interpreter, 
the Prayer-book : here is ' Nelson s Companion to the 
Fasts and Festivals of the Church of England,' the best 
book, next to he Prayer-book, that the uninspired mind 
of man ever compiled ; full of learning, full of piety, full 
of prayer. Know this book y/ell, and you will be wiser 
than your teachers ; for to understand and retain in one's 
mind the contents of one such book as this, is better than 
to read whole libraries, and to have but a dim and misty 
recollection of them all ; and here is another good book, 
which you mil find a valuable companion to you in some 
of your silent and solitary hours — ' The Whole Duty of 
Man.' Blessed be the memory of the pious lady who 
wrote it ! And may the blessing of God rest for ever on 
the family which sheltered the saintly Hammond in his 
persecutions, and produced her who left to the world this 
invaluable legacy !''^ In these books you have a religious 
library which will meet all your spiritual wants. Pray 
for me, as I shall not cease to pray for you — for this is 
the way to remember fiiends that are far off; and now 
go, and the Lord be with thee !' 

" But I had another parting of a very different kind to 

encounter — \\dth my poor sister Martha. Since her 

separation from her lover, she had gone about her daily 

avocations with her usual, and even more than her usual 

* The Packington family. 



90 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK 

cheerfulness and quiet alacrity. Indeed her eye sparkled 
with more brilliance, and her spirits rose to a higher pitch 
of excitement than I had ever before observed. She 
grew perceptibly thinner, but no alarm was thereby oc- 
casioned, as her colour was even heightened in brightness, 
and her mind seemed peaceful and happy. Yet / had 
watched her with more than common anxiety, and felt 
much alarmed for her state, though I could hardly assign 
the grounds of my fears. A few days before it was proposed 
that I should take my departure, she called me into her 
room after the rest of the family had retired to rest, and 
desired me to sit down by her side, with a seriousness of 
manner which seemed to show that she had some im- 
portant communication to make, 

" ' Brother,' said she, ' we part soon ; it may be sooner 
than you expect.' 

" ' How so ?' said I. 

" ' You must listen to my tale. We have never talked 
about him since we parted at Mr. Walker s. I have never 
repented what I did then.' 

" ^ Oh, how nobly you acted, dear sister,' said I, ' and 
how little you seem to have felt the shock of such a 
parting. How I love you for your determination ! You 
have never seen him since V 

" ' I saw him last night !' 

"'Indeed?' 

" ' Yes — last night. He stood by my bed-side, look- 
ing most pale and ghastly ; and reproached me with de- 
serting him, and leaving him to his fate. He said that I 
might have saved him by converting him from his evil 
ways, but now on me must rest the consequences of his 
ruin, both in body and soul.' 

" ' It must surely have been a troubled dream ! ' 

" ' No, brother, it was a sad reahty. I appeared to 
myself as wide awake as I am at this moment, and 
though my reason tells me that he could not be there, I 
saw him with as sober a mind, and an eye as steady as I 
see you now !' 

" 'And how do you explain this strange delusion V 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK, 91 

"'Easily — I am dying! Look at this hand/ said 
she, holding up her taper fingers hefore the candle. I 
could distinctly see the flame through the transparent 
skin, and trace the blue fret- work of the veins, as though 
they had been traced with a lead pencil on a sheet of white 
paper. I saw that all was over ! 

" ' Brother,' said she, ' I do not regret my past conduct 
in this matter; on the contrary, I rejoice in it as the 
only proof of fidelity that I have been permitted to give 
to the law of my divine Master. Could I believe that I 
7m^kt have saved him — but no, I will not think it pos- 
sible ! I was not to do evil that good might come. My 
Bible, Eobert Walker, and my own heart approve of what 
I have done ; and if I die for it, it may be that I shall 
live for it (through my Saviour's Blood) hereafter. Bro- 
ther, pray for me ! I dread the coming night ; but I trust 
to the Lord's power to drive away from my pillow evil 
thoughts, and evil spirits. My mind begins to wander — 
I must to prayer. Come to me early to-morrow morning. 
Good night, and God bless you !' 

" I went early according to her request, anxious to 
hear her report of the past night, and sincerely praying 
that it might have been more peaceful than my own. I 
stood by her bed-side, and called her name : all was 
still. I opened her window-curtain (bed-curtain there 
was none) and gazed on her face. She was dead ! Her 
hands were folded peacefully on her breast, showing that 
she had passed away in prayer, and there was a faint 
— a ver?/ faint — smile still lingering on her lips, as though 
at the very moment when she closed her eyes on earth she 
had just caught a glimpse of heaven. — Poor Martha !"* 

After a pause, the old man proceeded — "I will say 

no more of my final parting, because I would avoid my 

* The history of Martha will remind some readers (though the facts 
are very difterent) of that of Mary Robinson, commonly called " The 
Beauty of Euttermere," who was betrayed into a maiTiage by the 
notorious Hadfield, under the feigned name of Colonel Hope. Had- 
field was a man of good birth and education, and was afterwards 
handed for forgery. Mary died not long since, the mother of a large 
family, in a good old age, a subject of notoriety and curiosity to her 
dying day. Yet Robert Walker loved his dead Martha qzcite as much 
as his living Mary i 



92 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

motlier s name. Behold me then in Salford ! Hard at ^ 
work from morning till night, breathing the dense and 
foggy air of Hanging-ditch, instead of the pure and in- 
vio^oratinor breezes of Tilberthwaite and Yewdale. Much 
have I learnt, from sad experience, during my long life, 
of the condition of the labouring classes in this busy hive 
of men, and much could I tell you of cruelty on the part 
of masters, and of ingratitude and improvidence on the 
part of men. But I will keep these matters for another 
occasion. Suffice it to say, that I believe a manufac- 
turing state may and will become (though it may be 
neither in my time nor yours) quite as happy and 
as healthy a one as that of the best-regulated agricul- 
tural district. But, sir, the reformation must begin at 
the other end — it must be from the top first, and 
then to the bottom ! I will tell you a little secret — 
the men^ as a hody^ are quite as well educated for their 
station in life^ as the masters^ as a hody^ are for theirs. 
The next generation may see masters who have been 
brought up to the trade of masters, and not merely men 
who have become masters by good fortune; and then 
may we hope for a thorough reform in the whole system, 
of conduct of masters and men towards each other; of 
which, till then^ I almost despair. Meantime, if the 
Church had fair play, she Avould throw her healing branch 
into the bitter waters which surround us, and teach 
mutual love and forbearance to ' all sorts and conditions 
of men.' " 

" I fully agree with you," said I ; " we have heard 
much of late of the want of education among the poor ; I 
hope we shall hear, soon, of the necessity of a better sys- 
tem of education among the rich. But, my good old 
friend, you are quite forgetting that your tale is about 
anything else than that with which it professed to begin, 
'The Old Church Clock.'" 

" Eight ! my dear sir ; like many other old men I have 
allowed my tongue to out-run my tale. Well, sir, Sunday 
came — a day of joy to me, both as a rest from unusual 
labour, and as an opportunity of pouring out my soul 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 93 

in prayer in the manner that I used to do in my na- 
tive mountains ; so that I looked to be reminded of my 
temporal and eternal home, by joining once more in the 
same form of worship with my absent parents, and my 
good old pastor, Robert Walker. Little do they know of 
the beauty of a prescribed form of prayer who have never 
offered it up in a distant land ! Alas ! how were my 
hopes and expectations disappointed ! I naturally entered 
the first place of worship ivdthin my reach, expecting it 
to be, like Seathwaite chapel, free and open to all comers. 
But I was woefully mistaken ! A well-cloaked and 
liveried beadle soon informed me that there was no 
room for strangers, and that the aisle was the only place 
for me. It was true that I had this advantage over the 
sleepers in the well-cushioned pews around me, that I 
could kneel in prayer to God, whilst the rest were com- 
pelled to sit in His presence while they asked Him to 
forgive them their sins ! Still it was most painful to me 
to worship in communion with those to whom my joining 
with them in prayer Avas an unwelcome act; and I now 
felt myself really a solitary amidst crowds, when, not 
even in the presence of our common Father, had they 
any sympathy with their homeless brother ! Well, sir, 
time passed on; and among my smaller grievances was 
the occasionally receiving, and indeed deser\dng a repri- 
mand from my over-looker, for having been behind my 
time in a morning, at the early hour at which the work 
of our establishment commenced. Six was the precise 
hour; and even a minute behind that time subjected the 
truant to a serious fine. I well remember, one cold 
wintry morning, looking anxiously for the first sight of 
the Old Church Clock, as I crossed the Salford bridge 
into Manchester, and saw, to my horror, that it pointed 
to exactly ^nq minutes past that hour. There seemed to 
my imagination an expression of strong displeasure in the 
hard outlines of that old clock's face, which administered 
a far stronger rebuke to me than the violent and unfeeling 
language w^hich was addressed to me by the over-looker ; 
and I resolved, if it were possible, not to fall into the 



94 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

same disgrace again. The next morning I was, by the 
same clock, ten minutes before my time. The old clock 
seemed to smile at my punctuality, as I do now at the 
recollection. How apt is the youthful mind to put a 
portion of its own overflowing life even into inanimate 
things ! And what dead thing is so like a living one as a 
clpck V* 



CHAPTER XV. 



"We talked with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was young, 
And Matthew seventy-two. 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
He sang those Avitty rhymes 
About the crazy Old Church Clock, 
And the bewildered chimes. 

Wordsworth. 



" I gradually established an acquaintance with this old 
Clock. It had already proved itself a faithful friend — 
indeed the only one that I had yet found in Manchester ; 
for my mother s distant relation was too much involved 
in the all-absorbing pursuit of making money, to have 
any room in his thoughts for the wishes and feelings of a 
poor country cousin like myself. The Clock, however, 
had gro^\ai to be so intimate an acquaintance, that I one 
day took advantage of a leisure hour to pay it a nearer 
visit ; and was very attentively looking up into its face 
from the foot of the tower, in the space between it and 
the houses — which space was then exceedingly narrow, 
(the houses are now happily taken dovni,) when my 
shoulders were suddenly assailed by a very smart blow with 
a stick, from some person from behind ! I turned sharply 
round, as might be expected, and saw a little active old 
man, dressed in a suit of rusty black, with a hat somewhat 
of a clerical shape, and a pair of sharp grey eyes twink- 
ling under very long and very shaggy eye-brows, in the 
very act of raising his cane for the purpose of repeating 
the salute. I immediately twisted the oiFensive weapon 
out of his grasp, and seeing the reverend character of the 
assailant, exclaimed, ^ Nemo me impune — flourishing, at 
the same time, the cane over his head, as if about to 



96 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

return tlie blow. Nothing daunted with my threat, the 
little man stood his ground bravely; and said, with a 
look of mingled fun and fury, ' Who beat that bit of latin 
into your foolish head T 

'"• ' One,' said I, ' whose hand was quite as heavy as 
yours, though he did not lay on half so hard as you do !' 

"'All the worse — all the worse. Had he struck 
harder then, you would have needed it less now ! But 
why do you stop up the way to church, and stand gazing 
up to that tower, as if you were planning to rob the 
belfry r 

" ' I was thinking,' said I, for I began to be more 
amused than angry with the old man, ' I was thinking, 
when your cane interrupted my meditations, why it was 
that men placed clocks in the towers of churches !' 

" ' That is easily answered, man ; to teach you that 
time is a sacred thing.' 

" ' That is indeed an answer,' I replied ; ' and one 
worthy of my old friend Mr. Walker of Seathwaite !' 

" ' Mr. Walker !' exclaimed the old gentleman, in great 
surprise, 'what knowest thou of Mr. Walker? a very 
good man he is, and a very good scholar — not of the 
University, though — but a good scholar, and an old 
friend of mine ; what knowest thou of him, man T 

"' Know him ! Why he is my old pastor and master 
— the best friend I have in all the world ! Oh, sir ! If 
7/ou know him, you must be a good man too !' 

" ' Dont be too sure of that !' said the old gentleman, 
somewhat pettishly; 'there are two opinions on that 
subject, I promise you. Which of them / may entertain, 
is no concern of yours !' 

u <. Well, sir, but I am sure if you are a friend of Mr. 
Walker's, you will do me one service for his sake — the 
greatest you ever did to a poor lad in your life — you 
will tell me where I may go to church on Sundays.' 

" ' His cane, which I had restored to him, dropped to 
the ground, and he held up his hands in mute astonish- 
ment. ' The lad's lost his wits,' he said, as if to himself 
— 'clean gyte^ as his old friend Robert Walker would 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 9? 

say ! There lie is, standing before a church door wide 
open to receive him, and high enough for even his long 
legs to stride under, and he coolly asks me where he may 
go to church on Sundays ! Why, man, there you may 
go to church, not only on Sundays, hut every day in the 
week — and the oftener the better/ 

" It was odd that this had never struck me before ; 
but I had fancied, I suppose from its size and beauty, 
that this was a church intended, like those I had already 
tried, only for the accommodation of the rich ; and I said 
so to him whom I was addressing. 

" The old gentleman smiled at my simplicity, but there 
was more expression of kindness in his countenance than 
I had hitherto observed. ' The rich,' — said he, with a 
tone of contempt, ' why, man, that is the Parish Church, 
free to all alike, rich and poor, good and bad. The 
poor are by far the greater number, and, between our- 
selves, rather the better behaved and more attentive 
class, of the two. The rich take liberties with me some- 
times, which the poor dare not — if they did, I would 
break every bone in their skin ! But,' said he in a lower 
tone, ' I dont think anv of them ^^dsh me much ill, after 
all/ 

" Then, taking me by the hand, he said, ' And so, my 
poor lad, you feared to come into this church because 
you thought it was the church only of the rich man ! 
Come along with me, and I will soon provide you mth a 
sitting.' 

" He dragged me ^dth a rapid step through the church- 
door, and up the middle aisle, till he came to a place 
which he doubtless knew to be at that time unoccupied ; 
and setting me down with great force in one corner of a 
bench, he said, ' There ! sit there ! That is your seat 
as long as you occupy it punctually. If any one shall 
disturb you, say that old Elvers, the Reverend Joseph 
Rivers, placed you there ; and I should like to see the 
man that dares disturb you after that !' and he flourished 
his cane ^vith an emphasis which seemed to show that 





98 THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 

the consequences of so rash an act would indeed be 
serious ! 

" Such, sir, Avas my introduction to the Parish Church, 
and such is the favour — the inestimable blessing— which 
I owe to the Old Church Clock ! How often have I 
wished that the same blessing could be extended to the 
multitudes of young men that pour annually from the 
country into this great metropolis of manufactures and 
commerce, even if it were accompanied with the sharp 
discipline of old Mr. Rivers' cane, which I experienced 1 
Sir, thousands are lost — lost for ever — from the want 
which I felt, and from which the Old Clock delivered me 
— • want of church-room ! It gives them first the plea to 
spend the Sunday in idleness ; and a Sunday so spent is 
but a preface to one of vice and dissipation. Would that 
there were a dozen Old Churches in this vast hive of 
human beings ! Well, sir, that seat I have occupied from 
that day to the present hour — full fi ve-and -forty years ! 
They have been years of trial, and sometimes of trouble 
to me; but I have always found my best consolation 
there. During my days of toil and labour I was never 
absent from the Sunday services ; and now that a mode- 
rate competency and the advance of years give me grounds 
for retirement from busy life, the daily services find me a 
constant and delighted attendant. I find the daily temple 
worship the best possible preparation for that service 
which I trust may soon be my occupation in a higher 
sphere ; the best soother of the passions ; the surest re- 
lief in sorrow. Within those walls I have escaped all 
those anxieties which spring from religious doubts and 
differences, and have said the same prayers, and listened 
to the same doctrines during the lapse of half a century. 
The daily service flows on, in my ears, like my native 
DuDDON — always the same, yet ever fresh and new. I 
have seen sects rise and fall, and various forms of dissent 
flourish and decay; but they have no more moved my 
mind than the fleeting lights and shadows, sunbeams and 
storms, which pass successively over that venerable fabric. 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 99 

can disturb its foundations, or even shake one pinnacle 
from its towers. In those free sittings, so well thronged 
by pious worshippers, what changes have I lived to be- 
hold ! I have seen the grey head of many a faithful 
soldier of Christ laid low, while its place in the ranks 
has instantly been filled up by one as zealous and almost 
as grey as that which has been removed. Nay, the 
shepherds of the flock have been smitten as well as the 
sheep. I followed to the grave my old friend Mr. Joseph 
Rivers, to whose blunt kindness, and friendship for my 
master Robert Walker, I was so deeply indebted ; and 
much was I gratified to see the flood of tears that was 
shed by the poor over the old man s grave ! It was a 
proof to me that men know how to value honesty and in- 
tegrity, even though it be clouded, as it sometimes is, by 
a hasty manner and a rough outside. And I have followed 
to the grave one to whom I looked up with a feeling of 
deeper reverence and gratitude — the pious Christian — 
the courteous gentleman — the late venerable Head of 
our Church in this place. He was to me not only a 
teacher, but, I may almost venture to say, a companion 
and friend. How often have I hoped and prayed that 
he might be permitted to out-strip me in length of days 
as far as he did in his Christian walk ! But it was not 
so ordained ! Truly may I say of him, in the words of 
Scripture, ' That other disciple did out-run Peter, — and 
came first to the sepulchre !' " 

The silent tears rolled down the old man s cheek as he 
paused for a moment to meditate on the tomb of his 
pastor. 

" My tale,'' he soon added, " is now at an end. It is 
probably, as I said, but of little interest to any one but 
myself, and you who have so kindly listened to it. Yet 
I shall not have told it to you in vain, if it lead you to 
recollect that the poorest man you meet has his little 
history, could he be induced to tell it ; and his deep in- 
terest in the Church, could he be led to think so. At all 
events,'' he concluded, with a smile, " you will not, I am 

i-OFC. 



100 



THE OLD CHURCH CLOCK. 



sure, now blame me much, should you meet tlie Old Man 
once more on the Victoria-bridge, on a Saturday night, 
and find him setting his watch by — (even should it be a 
few minutes too slow) — the Old Church Clock/* 



Cf)e m\^. 



PRINTEI| BY CHAJJLES SIMMS AND CO., MANCHESTER. 

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